


The Light You Still Hold

by briannasroger



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Drama, Friendship, Inquisitor Hawke (Dragon Age), Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Minor Angst, Motherhood, Mutual Pining, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secrets, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Slow Build, Slow Burn, minor Hawke/Male Trevelyan, no love triangles, non-inquisitor trevelyan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 107,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briannasroger/pseuds/briannasroger
Summary: Convincing the Inquisition of her innocence was hard enough when she was newly marked, let alone a month after fleeing from their custody. Ophelia Trevelyan has no wish for history to remember her as just one more mage to ruin the world, but when her choices are stay and die or run and live, she knows which option to pick. She doesn’t know how she’ll convince the Inquisition to believe her this time, but maybe closing the rifts and making friends with them all is a start.Until closing the rifts becomes less about proving her own innocence and more about saving the world one rift at a time. Until becoming friends with them means starting to love them.A story in which the Herald flees from the Inquisition, winds up right back with them, and somehow finds happiness throughout all the trials to follow.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Mage Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 147
Kudos: 54





	1. The Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first delve in Dragon Age fanfiction! Big thank you to some of the really talented writers on here who encouraged me (albeit indirectly) to write again! I plan to do weekly updates until this story is complete! Tags are subject to change, but not heavily given I have this mapped out. POV should alternate between Cullen and the Herald throughout the story. Spelling mistakes are my own.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our herald doesn't stick around long enough to be considered our herald yet.

Cassandra didn’t speak any longer on their trek to the forward camp, but her final words were ringing around Ophelia Trevelyan’s ears, no more calming than they had been the first time. _There will be a trial, I can promise no more._ As if Ophelia would be lucky enough to make it to a trial. If the breach didn’t kill her, then someone else would. She was a deadwoman walking, and she didn’t need a Seeker of Truth to tell her as much. 

She conceded easily enough still, letting the warrior woman drag her up the mountain to the smear of crackling green energy in the sky, but in truth, there was never a choice in the matter. She wasn’t brazen enough to argue with a Seeker of Truth, nor was she selfish enough to doom the world to whatever was sucking the energy from her limbs with each pulse. 

Running wasn’t out of the question. Everyone was watching her, waiting to be the one to strike her down when she proved guilty. If she hadn’t spent nearly her entire life under the templars' watchful stares, she would shiver from the weight of so many eyes on her back. Think, _think_. What could she do that wouldn’t end in her being another disgraced mage in Thedas’ history? 

She grit her teeth against the pain in her hand. Maker, she couldn’t think when it was sending bolts of agony through her skin with every shiver from the breach overhead. Maybe the dwarf was right, maybe she should have come up with a story. Something better than “I don’t know” and “I can’t remember” to the many questions her new companions had flung her way since she met them. 

The apostaste, Solas, eyed her once more. Did he have questions? The inquisitive look in his eyes didn’t bother her, but something in the depths of his gaze made her shiver. She didn’t like it, and resolved to not make eye contact with him any longer. It was easier said than done when they were peppering her with questions. 

From Varric, she assumed it was equal parts his nosy nature - as anyone would expect from an author like him - and his attempts at breaking the ice. She didn’t know what to make of the other two’s curiosity. 

_There will be a trial, I can promise no more._

Maker, were they doing the trial now? “I’m sorry, what?” she asked, baffled.

“If you cannot recall what happened during the conclave, what brought you to it?” Cassandra repeated with a twist of her lips, annoyed at repeating herself. 

“The radical members of the Ostwick Circle left when we first heard word of the war, but the majority of us didn’t believe it. Seemed a bit too good to be true, didn’t it? That the mages were finally making a stand after so many years? I don’t even know what started it,” she admitted, shrugging. “Not until later when we were attacked by templars.” 

“Your templars turned on you?” Cassandra asked, disapproval clear in her voice. Ophelia frowned, studying her, unsure of what bit bothered her. The seeker continued, frowning. “What would make them turn their back on their duty then and not earlier?” 

Ophelia shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. Was she relieved, or afraid? “Oh, no, not... Outside templars did. They wanted to annul the people in the circle who remained, so they attacked. We fought back - all of us, that is, not just the templars who stayed.” She didn’t want to go into the bloodbath in Ostwick, she saw it enough in her nightmares without saying it aloud. 

Varric chuckled. “You didn’t leave when the war first began? You’re an odd sort, every mage I’ve come across seems eager for things to change.” 

“Things do need to change,” Ophelia said in surprise, shooting him a cursory look. “When word of the Conclave came, we all agreed to go. Mage and templar - and some turned on each other along the way. The Ostwick Circle is spread across the Free Marches and Ferelden, and I don’t think any of them will come back if asked.” 

“Would you?” asked Cassandra.

She froze. If there was a moment to take the dwarf’s advice and lie, it was now. Nothing painted her like a crazy mage willing to ruin the world than admitting the truth, though with each passing second, her chance of lying dwindled. _There will be a trial, I can promise no more._

“I don’t know,” she settled on, more honest than she intended. 

“Oh?” Solas said, the look returning to his eyes. Pity for the woman who didn’t know what she wanted, pity for the mage who didn’t want to choose freedom. 

The mark on her hand sent a shiver through her, like a child reminding her of its attention. She squeezed her hand, gritting her teeth. 

What did it matter if she lied? The goal holding her aloft was forever out of reach, the breach would see to that if the people didn’t. Everything else seemed… pointless. Her arms wrapped around her midsection, holding something that was no longer there. When would she stop thinking about it? _Never_ , her thoughts whispered. 

She ducked her head against the chill. “The circle showed me how to control myself, and it brought me people who understood me, but it took from me and it continued taking every day. So, yes, I don’t know. Did the good it bring outweigh the good it took?” 

They had no answer for her. The breach was too close for more conversation, and their trek to the first rift was silent, punctured only by the whispers of the red lyrium around them. “Don’t listen to anything it says,” Varric warned. “It’s tricked good-- well, smart-- Well, it’s tricked people before, don’t let yourself be one of them.” 

Cassandra grunted, and Solas inclined his head. 

Ophelia didn’t respond, but later, amidst the echoes of the fade and the disbelieving huff from Cassandra, she thought Varric’s words might have doomed her. The echoes in the fade should have been proof of her redemption - it was her first the Divine called to for her help, it was her voice that intruded upon a scene with whatever person killed them all. 

Red lyrium lied, she could see the thought written on their faces long before they reached the rift. She could see her fate in their eyes, and it was not sliding towards freedom. 

_There will be a trial, I can promise no more._

The thought rattled around in her head as the demon fell. Who would hold a trial? Everyone who could judge her was dead, and the only other people with that power were with her now. They had already decided her guilt.

The look on their faces lingered as the battle halted and the world spun on its axis around her. Flee, run, her thoughts raged, her body taking one faltering step forward before the weight of her body grew too heavy. Someone caught her, and her cheek rested on something soft as someone lifted her. 

_There will be a trial, I can promise no more._

They took her to a room and they allowed someone to heal her. They murmured above her bed, too quiet for her to detect, but she knew without hearing. Ostwick wasn’t a Kirkwall, and it was a tame circle compared to most, but she knew the feel of silent judgment. Knew it as a child, knew it as a mage. 

She longed to protest, but she couldn’t open her eyes let alone speak. 

Her lips quivered with the injustice of it at all. 

_There will be a trial, I can promise no more._

She didn’t want to die. Not from the breach, and not from the people. The thought lingered when her eyes opened one day after the breach closed, the room silent save for her own rattling breathing. 

_Move_ , she urged her body. Run. Is this what made the mages run? Is this what made them fight? She hadn’t understood it, not until the hangman’s noose haunted her dreams. She woke two days after the breach closed, weary and tired, and she rolled out of the bed with a quiet, pained cry. She didn’t want to die, she refused to die.

_There will be a trial, I can promise no more._

Ophelia would not be here for any trial. The thought drowned out Cassandra’s words, and she grit her teeth, forcing herself to her feet. Moonlight was shining through the sole window, and she spotted movement as someone wandered past a torch. She held her breath, waiting for someone to barge inside, waiting for the slice of a sword to cut through the shafts of light. 

Nothing. 

Ophelia looked once around the cramped room once, stealing a cloak from the cupboard and wincing at the creak. Coins were harder to find, but some lingered on a nearby table, discarded in someone’s haste to leave, and she scooped them into her hands, fingers trembling. The mark was silent. Perhaps it knew their time was limited. Perhaps it knew they didn’t have much longer. 

No time to waste. 

Without a second glance, Ophelia stole out a window in the back and fled in the night.

…

...

She lasted a month, something she thought grudgingly from the murky, disgusting cell acting as her current home. For once, the rot of corpses and stench of filth wasn’t the thing that kept Ophelia awake. It wasn’t even the wisps of conversation she heard from nearby templars as they waited for whoever was acting as their leader, standing watch over her like she would wake from her slumber with the new ability to fight them.

Nor was it her palm, which ached, burning with heat that made the rest of her cold even as she clenched her gloved hand beneath her cheek. Even now, with sweat making her long, dark hair cling to her face, she shivered, and it still wasn’t the thing to wake her from a slumber.

It was an explosion, so loud that it rocked her from her unpeaceful slumber and straight into something of a nightmare. She wasn’t in her cell anymore, but in the wreckage of the conclave, gravel and bones digging into her knees, blood pooling all around her and yet never touching, and from behind her came a keening, piteous cry. Her hand burned worse than ever, a bright green light that sparked and flashed, dancing across jagged stone and broken bodies and—

Ophelia cried out as the rock ceiling above her head began to crack, first a little, then like a spider web that crept and crawled and grew until large chunks fell like large cracks of thunder, the rush of air extinguishing her lone light source and plunging her into darkness. She gritted her teeth against the overwhelming rush of magic as it once more filled her, the runes etched into the ceiling no longer blocking her connection to the fade. 

It was too much magic at once, taking her breath away. 

The mark spiked with pain, and she bit her lip hard, trying to draw breath and force down her cry.

She climbed to her feet, shaking out her hair and rolling her shoulders, exhaling slowly as she rebalanced herself. She cupped her palms, focusing, and a bulb of bright light appeared, hovering above her hands and she flicked her fingers to release it. The light hovered just above her head, her prison filling with light.

The templars kept it dark, a lone torch outside her cell to offer light to the jailers and not the prisoner, as though the runes that locked away her magic would somehow stop working. With their distrust of all things magic and the belief that anything so was against the Maker’s will - as though mages somehow weren’t given their gifts from Him - she wasn’t surprised.

She smiled. The motion was foreign after weeks of being hunted like an animal, and days of being captured, but freedom was so close. 

No longer was she in chains. No longer was this cell her home. 

She strode to the bars, lifting a sole hand up and flinging it out. The streak of light pulsed and grew, sparking with power, and shot forward into the bars of her prison. The bars fought, but failed, crashing against the opposite wall with a bang like a cannon. Ophelia didn’t waste time, striding out of the cell, only hesitating a fraction at the base of a long staircase leading up. No clank and creak of armor running towards her. No shouts of templars coming to cut off her escape.

How could they not, with the ruckus she made?

She halted as another thought occurred. Was this not a trick? They had been watching her for days, looking for some sign of her power, not at all convinced that being a mage was the only thing guaranteeing her survival since the Conclave's disastrous end. Waiting, no doubt, for proof to deliver her to the gallows and gain their reward. Correct, really, if they had thought to remove the gloves that hid the mark on her palm, one that was both gift and curse. Thinking of the garish cut on her palm brought pain, but none so much as the gut-wrenching knowledge of what her mark represented to the people.

Murderer. 

Herald of Andraste.

It swung by day, as if people weren’t sure what to do as she stumbled around the Hinterlands these last few weeks. One moment she closes a rift in the dead of night. Another, she lays a trap at the templar and mage encampment before scurrying away, fearful of what meddling could do. Some days, she did nothing, wandering from one rift to the next, looking over her shoulder. 

The Inquisition didn’t help matters. They were so… _earnest_ , trying in vain to halt the rising tides, unaware of the imminent tsunami. On mornings when she awoke with only a few moments of sleep and cold air nipping at her cheeks, she regretted leaving them behind after closing the breach. 

Somewhat closing the breach, as it turned out. She could see it in the sky above their heads, still there but not quite gone, though she hadn’t paused to think about that on her flight from Haven in the dead of night.

Fleeing from the scene probably didn’t help their debate on whether she was a villain or a hero, she realized with hindsight. Staying behind had seemed like a long walk to her own death, and Ophelia didn’t want to wait around for the noose. No, she wanted the comfort of her circle back and her friends among them. She wanted this war over. 

She wanted-- Well, it didn’t matter what she wanted and it didn’t matter what they thought of her either. Nothing changed the fact that her entire life - her entire fate, really, if one believed in that sort of thing - would never be the same now that she had this damn thing. The weight of the world on her shoulders - or hand, as it was. 

It flared in protest. Sometimes she could mistake it for a living, breathing thing, but nine months spent with something far more alive removed the notion as quick as it appeared. This? This was a parasite. 

She hesitated, just briefly, but it was long enough for her to sense something… wrong. The air felt lighter than ever, not just from being free, but as though a blanket had been ripped off from the entire building itself, bringing it with fresh air and a terrible chill. 

The fade, she thought bleakly. It hadn’t occurred to her that whatever cracked the ceiling wasn’t just dumb luck and shitty architect -- the explosion she had thought a figment of her nightmares was, quite clearly, an epic battle waging above her head.

Perhaps she was safer in her cell. They certainly seemed too afraid to touch her, but how long?

No. Ophelia couldn’t - wouldn’t - stand around and wait for them to put her back. She hitched up the hem of her tattered robe with both hands, eyes narrowed on the staircase winding up and up into an unknown darkness. Whatever was up there would be safer than whatever was down here. 

...

...

She burst through the doors at the top of the stairs, and stopped, mouth agape. Her heartbeat in her ears had drowned out the sounds of fighting, but there was no mistaking the carnage around her. Bodies strewn across the floor. Templar, and some other less impressive uniform dotted with so much blood she could no longer see the insignia. Sickness welled up in her, swallowed back with haste.

No one deserved this.

Is this the Maker’s plan? If so, she didn’t see the goal, or the end point. 

Ophelia swallowed, throat dry, and crept forward, footsteps quieter, scanning around the hall. It was empty, for the moment, and that was more startling than the battle waged on the other side of the stone. Doors lined the wall every few feet, but none were grand enough to be an exit. 

She crept down the hallway, wincing when her bare feet brushed over fresh blood or loose rumble, shivering when the fighting became louder, and shivering more when the silence grew dense like a fog. Of all her plans, Ophelia thought this was her least thought out one. Stupid, really, to flee without even a weapon and no knowledge of where to go. She had her magic, but truly it was luck that had kept her alive this far and not any amount of skill with fighting. Fear was prompting her forward, but would fear stay their hand if she came across them? 

Her eyes lingered on the abandoned weapons, but most were too large or clenched between the fists of a dead person. Was she desperate enough to steal from the dead? 

Maybe, she thought, but relief washed over her when she spotted an abandoned dirk on the ground. It wasn’t the same as a staff, nor did she feel as brave, but she no longer jumped at the smallest of sounds. 

She did miss the exit, only noticing when she turned a familiar corner and spotted the same soldier holding a sword that she had spotted earlier. Backtracking, she found an entrance way with two large, imposing oak doors. One led to freedom, one led to death, and she was stuck figuring out which one. There were loud screams in the other room, half pain and half despair. 

That, then, would be the one she would avoid.

She failed nary a second later.

The large doors flung open, and a woman with dark skin and ice magic swirling around her finger tips held it open with her body. Others followed her out, and she shot shards of ice deeper into the room, over the shoulders of those retreating. The hall was filled with people in various stages of injury, their faces ashy and worried. She recognized none, not until a warrior with short hair and a grimace on her face stepped out, grimacing as she stepped over people with the same insignia on their chest that she wore on her own. 

Cassandra. Then the fighting was the Inquisition, she realized with dawning horror, looking over the bodies on the ground and the filling hallway. Cassandra didn’t notice, trading places with the woman at the door. 

No one paid Ophelia any mind, as if it wasn’t unusual for someone looking ragged like her to stand there.

No doubt because half of them looked ready to fall over. Wounded soldiers were strewn over shoulders, and dragged bodily away from the fighting. Ophelia could no longer see in the room, not unless she stretched on her toes. 

“My dear, if you are fighting with us, you would be better suited in the room. If you are leaving, you might try moving,” the woman said, catching sight of Ophelia and correctly assuming she wasn’t part of them. Her face betrayed nothing, but Ophelia hadn’t been on the run this long to miss the shift in her stance. No longer was her body angled to fling spells at the door, but tilted, as if one wrong move on Ophelia’s part would end with an ice spike in her throat.

“What?” she asked, voice hoarse. “Where are we?” 

The woman looked less and less impressed. “I see,” was all she said, as if Ophelia had answered an unspoken question and been found lacking. 

Ophelia couldn’t respond, for the tide of people was becoming smaller and smaller, and she could see into the room now. Whatever it was before, there was nothing left, broken by the battle inside of it. Worst of all was the green rift in the center of the room, large and imposing, spewing demons into the slowly drooping blades of fighters. 

She flinched at a pained screech.

Rifts were no stranger to her, the kin of it twisting in her palm as if it longing to reach it. She had made it her mission to close them, but she had never done so in front of witnesses. She didn’t dream of betraying who or what she was, not when so many people were there to witness it. _The Inquisition_ to witness it. 

This mark had changed her fate. No longer was she an apostate who would be flung into a circle if caught, now she was an apostate who held a scar to match the one in the sky, the same thing that had killed the divine and steadily sent Thedas on a path of destruction. 

If she was caught, she would die. 

What did it matter to her if these people died instead? 

“Andraste’s tit,” she swore. The woman didn’t blink, and her posture didn’t change, but something like amusement twinkled in her eyes for a split second. Ophelia didn’t stay to see what became of that twinkle, she marched into the room. She was smaller than most of the other soldiers, and tinier than everyone save several dwarves dotted among the people, and she slid around them all.

“SERA! STOP THROWING BEES!” was her only warning to duck before a buzzing jar of enraged insects flew through the space her head had been and smashed into a demon’s face across the way. She winced as the creatures buzzed, and the demon flailed, but better for the bees to fight it than Ophelia and her dirk.

Her dirk against a hall filling with demons. 

Maker, what was she thinking? Her feet froze in place, unable to find a place to move that didn’t put a demon directly into her path. Connecting with the rift would bring them all down on her head, but if she didn’t close, they would become overrun anyway. 

“Commander, what do we do?” The panicked soldier took the words out of her mouth and she whirled around, looking in the sea of bodies for the source. The sound of weapon on weapon made it difficult to hear, the noises echoing in her ears. To her left, a man fell to a demon’s swipe, screaming as he did. She flinched away, backing into someone else who quickly nudged her away with confusion on his tattoed face. He, too, was lost among the din. 

A wraith floated her way, halted by an elf with a bow and plaidweave leggings for a moment before the elf was sent flying from a well-placed hit. Ophelia shot forward, shoving the dirk into the wraiths back before it could do more harm. An arrow smacked it in the face and the two prong attack made it dissipate in a flash of light, returning to the fade. 

“Good hit, wasn’t it?” the elf woman said with a faint grin, an angry bruise on the side of her face. She flipped away before Ophelia could respond.

“Watch the left! Buy them time to leave!” A man ordered, his voice cutting through the air and repeated by soldiers as it went. It was him, the man she remembered from her horrid trek to the breach, recalling his blonde hair and weary eyes, the hoarseness of his voice from the hours fighting. 

The Commander would know what to do. Maker, if she could get to him, he could get her to the rift. They could end this.

Ophelia couldn’t even see the door. A woman beside her fell heavily, not a sound escaping her, but her eyes staring unseeing into the ceiling. Oh, Maker. 

The shade’s attention moved to her, and Ophelia shrieked, slashing wildly with the dirk. Its hand caught her wrist, sharpened claws digging into her skin through her gloves. The dirk clattered from her hand, and she winced as it dragged her away, the other hand reaching for her throat. She flailed, and her foot caught it, but she might have kicked a wall for all it did. Its claws dug into her neck, and she couldn’t breathe. Panicked, she kicked again and her free hand caught the wrist holding her throat. 

Come on, she thought, gritting her teeth. Her mana was a trickle, she hadn’t realized how low it was until that moment, but she pushed it for that final bit. Lightning crackled from her palms, faint at first, and then it crackled from her skin and sent a shockwave through the shade. It dropped her, hissing, and the shockwaves bounced from it to the demon nearest it. Soldiers took advantage of the momentary lull.

She collided with the floor with a yelp, shaking the tingle from her fingers. The shade reached again, and she shot a hand out, intending to blast it. A spark from her palm slammed into it, and then nothing.

She stared, horrified, and the shade reared back, not wounded enough to fade. What was she thinking? What a fool! Ophelia scuttled back, back hitting something hard, trying to dig into herself for more mana, something that could end this. 

Her eyes lifted. The rift was close. She could just… Maker, let her close this before she died. She ripped her glove off with her teeth, shoving her trembling hand into the air. The mark, for a moment dim, flared to life with a hum of power, colliding with the rift. 

The fighting halted for all of a second, the sounds of it fading away to nothing, her attention only on the rift and the way it fought her. She struggled to take in another breath, hissing at the way her hand shook. The mark burned, like someone was shoving a burning rod into her hand. 

The shade was creeping closer, and she pushed another burst of energy into the mark, willing the rift closed. Let it close before she died. Let her do something right. 

A sword swiped through the shade in the same moment the rift closed with a snap. The shade shrieked, the sound of it echoed by its brethren who were stunned by the rift's abrupt closure and the soldiers made quick, silent work of them. 

She fell back once more against the hard wall, hand dropping to her chest as she let out a rattling breath. The days of captivity were catching up to her, unable to process the silence of the room. She sucked in a breath, and then coughed violently as she failed to catch her breath. 

The wall behind her moved, and she fell back onto the ground. 

Not a wall, as it turned out, but the armor of someone staring down at her with bemusement. The weeks hadn’t treated the Commander of the Inquisition well. Dark smudges beneath his honey colored eyes and a cut bleeding from his cheek profusely -- and still the sight of a familiar face above her head brought a wave of relief through her. 

The Inquisition was here, they wouldn’t let her die. They, at least, would let her talk, if only the cacophony in the room would halt enough for her to speak.

“Hello,” she croaked, struggling to draw breath, panic building when she couldn’t draw in more. His eyes grew concerned, eyes flickering over her for a moment before catching sight of her throat and then lifting his head. His lips moved, but she didn’t catch what it was through the ringing in her ears. 

Hands reached for her, brushing over her bruised throat and soothing the ache there. She blinked once, but her eyes grew too heavy to hold open and she slumped back to the ground, letting the warmth of healing magic wash over her.


	2. His Belief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen doesn't know what he believes anymore, but the Inquisition seems like a good place to start finding answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone who knows basic math? Never heard of her. This is why you're getting a chapter early! Much love to whomever is reading, I would love to hear from you!

One loss in his book was too many, and they had lost more than a fair few in their attempt to speak with even one group of templars. As commander, Cullen should have better predicted what this renegade bunch of templars would do when the Inquisition came to talk, but he had hoped even a few templars had regained their wits. 

Hawke hoped for the same, and the annoyance creeping across her face was hard to ignore.

“Well, I guess I can’t make fun of you for being paranoid this time,” Hawke said when the talk ended, looking more put out at the idea of having one less thing to prod him about rather than the many losses they had incurred. Less than they could have for how outnumbered they were, he accepted, even if the names flashed across his mind. Hawke wasn’t like him in that regard - she remembered them, but she kept one foot in front of the other and didn’t think about what could have been’s. “So we really can’t just remove the Lord Seeker whatever from the equation!” 

Josephine sighed. Like Leliana, she had been unsure of the plan to approach the templars, though for much different reasons than the spymaster. “Yes, Inquisitor, even if we had a positive reception from these templars, it would only be a short-term solution to one problem.” 

Hawke waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, I remember. We can’t stop the war by bringing in just a random band of people, but Andraste’s ass, you think they would want to stop fighting, too!” She directed her words Cullen. “How are the people holding up? I mean, this was a victory, so I hope they are living it up where they can.” 

He kept silent, pinching his nose. She wasn’t wrong, and he wouldn’t prod about something that was merely a difference in mindsets. The ice between them wasn’t thawed enough for a proper debate, and he was saving the inevitable showdown for something more pressing. The list of names on the paper drew his attention, and he forced himself to look elsewhere, the weight of them lingering on his shoulders still. 

“At the very least, our… fight with the templars allowed people to get more battle experience. If we are to face worse, the little bit of experience could help,” he supplied, a half-hearted answer. Some were injured, and some were killed, but he wasn’t wrong. His soldiers were green, some more villagers than fighters. Once Rylen recovered properly, they would begin the arduous task of running down the line of men, correcting them individually. Maybe even an example spar, Maker knew they could use it. A few people with more experience would be dropped among the rest, too, if only because he, Rylen, and Lieutenant Isaac were stretched thin.

Leliana cut through his thoughts without even realizing it, and Cullen forced himself to pay attention. His thoughts so enjoyed wandering these days. “We came out of this with more than enough. We have the mark back, and that will make it easier to put plans into motion,” she pointed out. “We do have to figure out what to do with her, though. Our reputation already took a hit letting her go the first time, we can’t have it happen again.” 

“Not turning her over to Val Royeaux will bring as much a problem on our heads as letting her escape,” Josephine countered, her feather quill hovering over parchment. Of all the women in the room, she unnerved him the most at times, her sharp intelligence obscured by her diplomacy. With a look, she could see through anyone and he had no wish to find out what she saw in him specifically. The other women in the room knew him at his worst already, and he didn’t want to add Josephine to the mix, least of all because it meant he failed. Cullen shook the thought off. 

Josephine was still talking. “We have some wiggle room. She is from Ostwick, they will require sending her there first and then to Orlais from there, and we could offer to hold her until such approvals are ready. We do not have many options in this regard, not many have acknowledged us.” 

Even Cullen found it unlikely people would wait. With Orlais in the middle of a war and the Chantry still scrambling to find their footing, they would push something like this to the forefront of their attention. A way to unify and settle things, no matter who or what got swept under the rug. 

“We have no idea who this woman is, we only have her word on it,” Leliana said, frowning. Her hand lifted to her hood, adjusting it over her red hair, the only sign she gave of her own weariness. None of them knew how to handle the situation, and she took the mage’s flight last month the hardest. “My agents haven’t discovered anything on the Ostwick Circle, but the few people we have from Ostwick confirmed there was a mage named Trevelyan there.”

“None have seen her?” Cullen asked. “We have several people from the Ostwick Circle, one of them must recognize her. I’ll find out from them what they know.” 

Leliana inclined her head. “Either way, we could hold her here until we know more. We can ensure everyone is silent, make sure no one knows we have her back again. By the time we know more or other’s learn the truth, we’ll have undoubtedly found a way to fix the breach.” 

Josephine and Leliana turned to him. Both had said their piece for the moment, and the suspiciously silent Hawke would prod them with more questions as necessary. It was his turn to say his piece, though as commander he couldn’t offer much beyond telling the Chantry to shove it as they did in the beginning and hold her until the breach was closed. As a prisoner, likely, given she might run again. 

He didn’t say anything, returning their gazes for a moment.

Of the people in the room, Cullen was the only one who had fought the templars and the only one to see the woman’s near miraculous arrival. Without her, they would have been overrun. Cullen had been in the process of sending Rylen away to ensure someone would live to help the Inquisition move forward when she stumbled into him. It was a close call, far too close. “We should hear what she has to say before we make a decision,” he said slowly, testing out the words. “Madame de Fer tells us the woman entered the room willing, and Sera tells us the woman saved her from a wraith.” 

He paused. When she bumped into him, he had only a second to respond before a wraith was flinging spells at him and he was forced to fight back. In the moments before turning away, he recalled the shade, falling back from lightning crackling on her palm. He remembered killing the wraith, and turning back to where he last saw her, feeling the shift in a telltale shift in the air, the kind where magic tried and failed to appear. More, he remembered the shade rearing back, and the panicked look on her face. The sudden shift as she chose the rift above her head over defending herself.

It didn’t feel like the actions of someone who had murdered an entire conclave. Cullen’s instincts were no longer trustworthy enough to voice this opinion, though. How many times had he thought himself right only to be proven horribly wrong? No, he would have to wait and see. 

Maker’s breath, he had to do the same with Meredith, too. Knowing how that ended didn’t make it easy, but this time… He didn’t know what to do, and for the thousandth time since Cassandra recommended him as their Commander, he still didn’t know if it was the wisest decision. 

“Well, geez, that means I’m the only person who hasn’t met her,” Hawke said after a lull, brows raised in his direction. “Bring her in then.” 

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “I believe she is still unconscious.” 

“It took five days to get here, how is she still asleep?” Hawke asked, aghast. 

“It sounds like the healers were overzealous, or the mark responded badly to the magic, we didn’t have Solas or Adan there and they were the only ones with experience on her condition,” Leliana added, sighing. “Solas checked with her earlier, she should be awake soon.” 

“Hopefully,” Hawke muttered, frowning. “I can’t make a decision without seeing her.” 

Leliana’s voice was steely. Perhaps the loss of the mark had weighed on her more heavily than he thought - indeed, he had beat himself up for several days after her departure for not thinking to station more watches around Haven. Her scouts were the ones who watched the roads in and out of Haven, and he wondered which poor fool had to deal with her wrath when no answers were forthcoming. “We might not have time to wait for her to wake.” 

“I’m the Inquisitor, I can take my time once in a while,” she protested. It cracked some of the tension in the room, and they all exchanged amused looks. Satisfied with the apparent victory, she regarded Josephine with quirking lips. “Now, tell me, where are we with allies then? You said Lord Whosit might be able to help?” 

Josephine, in a testament to her skill as an ambassador, didn’t roll her eyes or sigh at Hawke’s inability to recall a single nobleman’s name. Cullen shifted, settling himself for a long conversation about stuffy but necessary nobles. Across the table, Leliana caught his eyes and grinned, a rare sight, before her face grew stoic once more. 

…

…

The meeting was dragging longer than usual. They had discussed the same topic three times and little had changed between each comment, but Hawke continued to carry on, perhaps hoping she could stall long enough for the woman with the mark to come waltzing into the room. If she did it now, they could figure out a couple things and be done for the night, but if she didn’t, they were once more left waiting, knowing any moment they could be called in for another meeting. 

He didn’t blame her. His head was pounding in the dimly lit room, and the only thing Cullen wanted to do was find a place to rest his head for a few minutes. Or to shove his face into a pile of snow until the ache receded so that he might get some work done. The latter would be more likely, he couldn’t picture escaping long enough to sleep nor did he really want to battle it out with his nightmares tonight.

“Well,” Hawke said, sighing, defeated. “I guess we’re--” 

The door opened without warning, and a figure stood in the doorway looking remarkably disheveled and tired for someone who had been sleeping for several days. Her dark hair was messy, falling around her shoulders, and her fingers were hard at work to tame the waves, trying to plait the strands with shaky fingers. Her round face was scrunched in concentration, pulling at the scar on her forehead, but her eyes flickered more than once to the people in the room, not unaware of her audience.

Cullen regarded her with some concern, lingering on the splotches of still healing bruises on her neck. It was the least of her injuries if none of the healers had fixed it up then. She looked so tiny, almost delicate, and the ghastly marks on her tan skin was a reminder of how quickly things in the room had gotten out of hand. If she died, what hope was there for Thedas? 

Cullen wasn’t a fool. They had been sitting on their hands, looking for a way to close the breach more fully, but their only real hope was the woman showing up once more, or Solas having a breakthrough that he would share with them. Neither of which seemed like an option, least of all the one involving Solas, who took a distance with everyone in Haven except for Varric. For his part, Cullen didn’t blame him when half the camp regarded Solas with distrust. 

Still, their chances of closing the breach without her? Zero. What were their chances if someone else was involved with the breach? If it was possible for someone to do it once, Cullen just knew they could do it again, and he didn’t relish the idea of sending the only person capable of stopping it to the chopping block. 

His eyes caught Hawke’s, and an unspoken agreement flashed through them. Whatever the other two might think to do, they couldn’t allow the woman to be taken to the Chantry, not until things were settled fully. It was, perhaps, one of the first times he and Hawke had agreed on something. 

“Brilliant, you’re alive,” Hawke said with a laugh. Cullen wasn’t surprised; he thought the only time he had seen her truly serious were three horrid days in Kirkwall: him taking Bethany to the Circle, her mother’s terrible death, and Ander’s horrific choices. The others shifted, impassive but thoughtful. “When they carried you in, I thought you were close to death. Again, if what these guys say is true. Do you like to live with one foot in the grave?”

The woman bit down on her lips. Cullen couldn’t help thinking of her closing the rift and catching his eyes. The upturn of her lips, and the relief on her face, as if she didn’t mind seeing them all one more time. Hello, she had said, her accent an incomprehensible mess from the wounds on her neck. 

It was a far cry from the discomfort in her bright green eyes now as she swept the room, lingering on the weapon at his hip and the greatsword on Hawke’s back. She bypassed Leliana and Josephine, lingering only on the red head for a moment before zeroing in on the two obvious threats. Not a woman of battle then, he thought, for overlooking Leliana was always a mistake.

She didn’t speak. Hawke continued as if it didn’t matter. “What’s your name?” 

The question broke her silence, and she blinked, looking younger with her confusion. He struggled to recall what little bits he knew about her history, though a glance at Leliana reminded him how little they truly knew. “Is that a trick question? Do you truly not know?” she asked, shaking her head and then halting with a pained grimace, dropping her hands from her hair with the plait half-finished. Head wound, perhaps. 

“I’ve heard what people have told me, but trust me, I’ve been on the other end of rumors and I don’t trust gossip. I want to hear it from you so I’ve got my facts straight.” Silence. Cullen would need to give Hawke more credit, she could be remarkably patient when she wanted, and she used it now, head tilted. She leaned forward, an easy smile on her face as she eyed the woman. “Here, it’s easy, I’m Hawke, and you’re…?” 

“Ophelia.” Hawke raised a brow, pressing for more. The woman stared, searching Hawke’s face for several long seconds. “Ophelia Trevelyan.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she said no more. 

“Well, I’m glad you decided to show your face around here, I was starting to think they were making you up,” Hawke said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the advisors. Her eyes locked with Cullen, wordlessly requesting something. Maker knew what, though, he couldn’t understand what the arch of her brows met without an enemy in front of them. Any other situation, that look could mean skewer whoever walked in next, or let her use his shield as a jumping board, or any other option that he would forever regard skeptically. Her eyes shot up, exasperated. “Surprised you didn’t want to do your part in fixing things from the beginning.” 

“That seems hardly a fair comment, did we not have to bribe Varric into convincing you to hear us out?” he questioned, somewhat amused at the startled expression on her face. Less so when she became pleased, as if he had stepped right into one of her little jokes. 

“I was right then. You and Cassandra are still butthurt I didn't show up in Kirkwall when you were first recruited,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“If you had been at the Conclave, I daresay the entire mountain would be missing,” he said without hesitation. The woman at the door winced, shrinking back against the door. He reviewed his words a moment, head tilted, but while they were hardly complimentary, they were undoubtedly true. Hawke had a habit of taking two non flammable things and turning them into a fire - he dreaded what she could do with two _very_ flammable things. 

Hawke laughed, delighted. “Look at you being a bucket of optimism, I never thought I’d see the day. Mark it on my calendar, Josie, I want to remember this.” He had always remarked on her laughter being the sort that invited others to join, and it was no different right then. A faint grin was on his lips, and Josephine had an amused smile, and Leliana was watching, silent, a twinkle of mirth in her eyes. 

When the woman relaxed a little at this show of humanity, it occurred to Cullen that the whole thing had been part of Hawke’s plan. 

“If we could return to the matter at hand,” Leliana said pointedly, no doubt coming to the same conclusion long before him. 

Hawke waved her hand. “Right, right. Do you know everyone here, Ophelia? I’d introduce you, but we don’t really have the time for it, so just stop one of us if you have important questions. I’d like to be done with this meeting before dinner is done.”

“I believe dinner concluded twenty minutes ago, Inquisitor,” Josephine said quietly.

She grimaced. “Soon as we can then. So, look, I wasn’t here when this mess first happened, give me a second to get the story straight.” She leaned a hip against the table, some of the mirth falling from her face, bringing out the lines of stress on her face. “You fell out of the breach, you close the breach a little. Then you flee in the middle of the night without a word? That’s insane.” 

The woman rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, not looking at any of them. “Was I supposed to stay here and wait for my imminent execution? I did what I could and almost died for it once.” 

“Your trial won’t be until the breach is fully closed,” Hawke said dismissively, decisively. A promise he wasn’t sure they could keep, truthfully. The advisors held their tongues, though he could see the way Leliana and Josephine exchanged quiet looks and knew this wasn’t the end of their talk. 

“The Chantry is fair. If you have nothing to hide, they won’t execute you,” Leliana said, quickest to recover. 

The woman snorted. “Because treating mages fairly is the norm in Thedas. I’m not the most observant person out there, but even I know when the odds are stacked against me.” For all her bravado, Cullen detected the unease in her voice. She shifted on her feet, fingers still rubbing together, as if she could find no better use for them while they discussed her fate. “I don’t want to die.” 

“It's a bit silly to run out on us then given we’re the only people willing to give you a shot,” Hawke said. Hawke, for all her attempts at setting the woman at ease, was jumping in for the kill. “I find it difficult to believe that you survived easily out there. How has the month treated you so far?”

“... It is very different from the circle,” she admitted, fingers stilling and reaching for her wrists, rubbing at wounds that were no longer there. He recalled the state of her robes and her appearance during the fighting, both of which were more messy than one would expect from how long she was in the room. Perhaps it hadn’t been from the fighting at all. In all their talks, he hadn’t questioned how the woman ended up with the templars. “How do I know I’ll be safer here, though?”

Hakwe looked his way with a shrug. He jumped in, hand resting on the pommel of his blade to hide from the tremble starting to build. “Your hand is the only thing that can close rifts, we would be remiss to let you die on our watch. Our soldiers keep Haven safe, and you have more allies among them than you think - none of us have forgotten what you did with the rifts.” He shifted, falling into silence, unsure of the purpose of this conversation. Their words were intended to ease her mind, not to convince her. 

“Look, we aren’t sending you out to die. You saved my people in that stronghold, and I’ve read the reports. You’ve been trying to close rifts around the Hinterlands on your own. I don’t see someone guilty doing that unless they were, you know, actually feeling guilty about it. And the people who do something like blow up Conclaves with hundreds of innocent people aren’t going to feel guilty about anything.” Hawke’s voice grew serious. 

Images of Kirkwall rose to the forefront of his mind, and he wondered if she was thinking of another mage who appeared to feel no guilt for the lives taken. Worse thoughts came up, and Uldred’s voice rattled in his ears, loud enough that he spared a brief glance around the tiny room before he shook himself. Kirkwall was not Kinloch. Anders was not Uldred. Neither of them were the Inquisition.

“Why did you help?”

She looked confused. “Why wouldn’t I? I didn’t leave because I wanted the world to end, I just don’t… My family needs me, I can’t die yet. I need to find them, and I… I want to see them once.” Her fingers were curled into fists at her side, no longer content to jitter helplessly in front of her. Wearily, her body shifted, back pressed against the wall, the words taking away whatever strength had kept her standing.

Cullen watched her a moment longer. How long had it been since she ate or rested properly? This conversation wasn’t going to be helpful in getting answers, and he shifted, uncomfortably aware that her weariness was the exact reason they were doing this now.

All the better to catch her in a lie.

“With our resources and connections, Lady Trevelyan, it would be a simple matter to close the rifts. We are also uniquely equipped to help you find the proof of your innocence, as we are also on a quest to find answers,” Josephine said, sensing the imminent conclusion to the conversation. Cullen didn’t know if where it was going was right, but while he didn’t yet have faith in his ability to lead yet, or the Chantry in being impartial, he did believe in the Inquisition. He had faith in the three women in the room. 

His instincts might be wrong about other things, but they weren’t wrong about them. 

Her brows furrowed. “Are you offering to help me?” 

“For a price,” Leliana said simply. 

“Sounds like something a demon would say, and I don’t make deals,” she replied, worried.

Hawke and Leliana exchanged a silent look, debating who would say what. Then Hawke turned back to her, the smile on her face tinged with sadness. “This isn’t a deal, I’m afraid. We need you to close the rifts, and we need to get answers, and you are our best bet at both of them.” 

At once, she slackened, distress and fear chasing each other across her face. For a dreadful second, Cullen tensed, preparing to catch her before she collided with the table. It wasn’t sturdy enough to survive a full hit, nor did he think it would be a pleasant landing for her. His armor offered little help in that department, but better than-- 

She straightened, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m your prisoner then,” she stated slowly, looking ill. 

Josephine hid a wince very well. Cullen recognized the tightness around her eyes too much from their few conversations to be fooled. “Unfortunately, yes.”

An awkward pause, all of them unsure where to go next or what to say. Hawke filled it in, barreling through the silence as she always did. “Look on the bright side? We aren’t going to execute you, and we aren’t going to put you in a cell, so you’re more of a guest than anything. A guest who can’t leave and will be heavily watched, but still a guest,” she said with optimism. 

… 

…

In the days following her return to the Inquisition, Cullen had little time to speak with her as their ranks slowly filled up. Some were ill-suited for battle, but he gave them a chance same as anyone else, working out the flaws in their technique and assigning them with another soldier. Rylen agreed with his decision to pair people up, experienced and inexperienced, and they made their rounds through the pairs, lifting where someone’s knowledge proved inadequate or someone’s teachings somewhat flawed. 

It wasn’t a perfect system, but it freed up a decent portion of his day, and he allowed himself a few moments to simply breath as he stood among the men. The sound of clashing swords wasn’t relaxing, but he much preferred it to the awful silence waiting for him later tonight. It made him regret setting up his tent further from the rest. Still, better to sleep a little uncomfortably than have the weight of eyes on him when a nightmare inevitably brought him from his tent in the wee hours of the night.

Like the eyes he could feel on him now, lingering on him as they passed over the soldiers sparring around him. Cullen didn’t need to lift his head to know who it was. Their decision to keep the woman prisoner and ignore the Chantry’s equally inevitable threats had meant they could… somewhat let her wander, shadowed by two of their men: a pale and lanky man named Dara and a stout man with a bushy red mustache named Tanner. Neither seemed pleased on the position, and argued for who would have far guard, only quelling their argument under Leliana's dark look. Now they followed her silently and he saw peeks of them often. 

Everywhere he turned, he thought he saw a flash of her colorful tunic - chosen for its contrast with everyone else’s, he knew from a conversation between Josephine and Leliana. 

She watched everything and everyone, not speaking unless someone spoke to her directly, and Cullen wasn’t surprised that she watched him in particular. He was a templar once upon a time, and she was a mage, and it saddened him that he couldn’t escape that life even in the Inquisition. 

They watched him, and he watched them. Trying to change that seemed impossible, but when the men began to murmur, the sparring lulling in the wake of her quiet footsteps in the snow, he saw a chance to change it. Leliana suspected it was boredom that kept her moving, as her agent had reported the woman rarely did anything other than stitch up old clothes, collect elfroot, and attempt to talk the local healer, Adan, into letting her help.

Adan refused, according to Hawke, who had been more amused than annoyed.

“There's a shield in your hand. Block with it,” he called. The order to resume their business was unspoken, but heard nonetheless and the fighting continued. He opened his mouth to say something, but a lieutenant stood beside him and Cullen addressed him briskly. “Lieutenant, don’t hold back. The recruits must prepare for a real fight, not a practice one.”

“How did the Inquisition find people? This valley is in the middle of nowhere,” she commented as his lieutenant saluted and disappeared. Cullen vaguely heard him calling from the other side, but he put the men momentarily out of his mind, content that Rylen and the rest would be able to handle it for a moment. For now, his focus lingered on her and gestured for her to walk with him. 

They had taken to calling her the Prisoner much in the same way some still called her the Herald. Cullen wasn’t sure what to call her when both of them seemed wrong, and even in his own head he couldn’t find a way to reference her without calling her the mage (something not in line with his attempts at distancing himself from his previous life), the woman (something that was true but also awkward in its entirety), or any of the other possibilities (which seemed wrong). 

He rubbed the back of his neck, realizing the silence had stretched a bit longer than he intended. “Some were locals from Haven or pilgrims, but the majority have come from wherever the Inquisition helps. We haven’t ventured too much beyond Ferelden at this point, however. The Chantry isn’t pleased with us.” 

“You’d think they would be. Aren’t Leliana and Cassandra the left and right hand of the Divine?” 

“They were, but it doesn’t change that the Inquisition steps on their toes. We aren’t willing to sit on our hands until they sort things out,” he explained, not mentioning the obvious. Her disappearance on their hands had given the Inquisition a hit they had struggled to break, and it was possibly the appearance of Hawke that had changed their momentum. 

“I suppose I didn’t help with that,” she said, thumb tapping against her ring finger absently, the motion catching his eye. A nervous tick, he assumed, and he didn’t question it more, not when his own were so glaringly obvious. He removed his hand from his neck, just recalling it was there. “I am sorry for the trouble it caused, I wasn’t thinking of anything beyond what I needed when I left.” 

Cullen’s steps faltered, but he tried not to let it show by letting their walk come to a stop.

An apology wasn’t on the list of possible turns their conversation could take, and he wasn’t much sure how to respond to it. Her eyes stayed on him, biting her lip with a look of uncertainty on her face. How difficult it must have been to approach him and say it, and he couldn’t even think of a response. Instead he couldn’t help noticing how green they were. It wasn’t unlike looking at the breach, though much more pleasant and less demonic. Not a flattering description at all, he realized, sighing as he looked away.

“I don’t, erm… That is, you do not owe me an apology. You’re here now and that says much. Not that you had a choice, but… “ He ran a hand over his face, taking a breath. Maybe the lack of sleep wasn’t helping him. “I read the reports as much as Hawke. Perhaps more so. I’ve seen and heard the good you’ve done in the Hinterlands on your own, I’m inclined to think your force and ours will do something good.” 

She didn’t speak for a second, lips parted in thought, looking at him without quite looking at him. He fought the urge to look over his shoulders and see if she was searching for someone else. “You’re right, I guess… I guess I didn’t think about all the good the Inquisition could do if I would just help them,” she murmured, beginning to frown. “It was selfish to leave.” 

Cullen shrugged. “I will admit, I was quite angry at the time, and I still fear it may have done more harm than good,” he started, and a fissure of guilt welled up in him when she looked away, fingers pausing in their erratic tapping. He hurried to carry on, hoping the end of his words would bring more peace than the beginning. “I don’t know what matters prompted you to leave, or why you thought we would give you no chance to speak for yourself, but as I said before, you are here now. Sometimes the only thing you can do to make up for the past is the next right thing.”

Her tapping resumed, and Cullen was coming to believe that was just her way of moving while thinking. A smile broke across her face, small and sweet, and he blinked, surprised at the way his lips curved up in response. If Hawke’s laugh had the power to make someone laugh with her, then Ophelia’s was the ability to make someone smile.

Her smile continued, a touch of relief in her tone, as if his words had lifted a burden. “Thank you, Commander.” 

“Ah, you’re welcome.” He stopped himself from saying her name, swallowing hard. Everyone called her the prisoner, or the herald, and it made little sense that he found it easier to say her name. Cullen sought a subject change. “Are you prepared for the Hinterlands? You will have Varric and Cassandra accompanying you, alongside the Inquisitor.” 

“I would call it more of an escort, I think, in case I run off again,” she said casually, as if it were a normal conversation. For all their talks of her being a prisoner, they were fairly lax, knowing they could hardly bundle her up in a cell and leave her there. They required her to close the rifts, after all, and it was for this reason that Hawke had put off traveling for so long while they figured out how to handle Ophelia. It had taken hours for them to decide the only solution was to take her along, and withhold her staff until it was necessary for her to hold it. 

_Trial and error, eh?_ Hawke had said with laugh in the war meaning earlier, announcing her decision to leave to the Hinterlands in a couple days. Cullen hoped it was enough, and half-thought they might be better off taking another person along with them, if only to compensate for the wild card that was Ophelia Trevelyan.

“Keeping you with the Inquisition is the goal, yes,” he admitted. “But they would have come along regardless, they’ve put the most work into restoring peace in that region. People will be familiar enough with them, and Hawke’s presence will go a long way in keeping people from bothering you. I am sure you have noticed, she is quite boisterous and she can silence any malcontent from the people who recognize you.”

Ophelia regarded him closely, eyebrows bunching together. The scar on her forehead was bigger than he first recalled, spreading across half of her forehead and far too old to be from her time in the Hinterlands. If he thought about it, he recalled seeing it in the brief moments he saw her in the field when she closed the breach. “Are we expecting trouble?” she asked, pulling at her fingers. 

Cullen raised his brow. “You are familiar with the conflict in the Hinterlands, I assume?”

Her cheeks reddened, and she kicked at the snow with a huff. “With some of it, but I wasn’t staying in the towns. I know things were a mess, but it calmed down, didn’t it?” 

“Hawke did her best. Closing the rifts will help, as will shutting down the mage and templar encampments,” he said, watching her closely. As expected, she didn’t look thrilled at the prospect, the redness fading from her face as quick as it appeared. “No one will let you come to harm during this.” He didn’t let the words sink in, not wanting to see what she would make of it. “Before you go, perhaps you can finish the report on what you recall during the conclave.”

She grimaced. “I think that requires remembering it, Commander. My memory hasn’t come back at all.” 

“The smallest thing you can remember is still a hint on where to go, or show us a pattern in the things missing from your memory. Leliana is best suited to finding the truth, take advantage of it,” Cullen suggested. He wasn’t sure what he believed yet, he hadn’t been the best judge of character in the past, but the sooner they found it out, the easier he would breathe. 

Her response was swallowed up as a scout rushed up to him, skidding in the snow. “Report, ser.” 

When he looked up, Ophelia was already walking away.


	3. Inner Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia struggles telling one prison from the next.

They didn’t let Ophelia stay in the cabin once she fully awoke. Whether this was because someone else had taken up residence since she last used it, or because they wanted her to take some place much easier to watch, she ended up in a tiny room inside the Chantry. It wasn’t unlike her quarters in the Circle: too cramped for her comfort after days in captivity, and not so much a door as a loosely hung sheet, but warm. The latter was important in the snow capped Haven where everyone bundled under warm, fur-lined clothes, wind chapped cheeks facing the day. Her bedroll offered the only respite from the cold air. 

The little campfire near the front gates wasn't equal to her room in the Chantry, but she feared sitting inside would drive her mad. Every quiet whisper of footsteps made her think Hawke would burst the sheet, deciding against Ophelia's status. The clanking of armor on the Chantry's stone made her cower, waiting the inevitable smite. One day was enough to draw her out, and Haven was adequate in holding her attention.

If her room was similar to the circle, she thought Haven would feel the same. Haven bustled with life and people, the likes of which she hadn't seen since she was merely the youngest Trevelyan. Everywhere she turned, there was something new, from the bustle of people around a merchant's wares to the low singing from a nearby building. A tavern, she learned upon asking. She'd never been, and watched it with longing for hours before following the sounds of shouting to the Commander and his soldiers. 

He was a good man, she decided, even if he had reminded her of why she was here. Not to observe a life she had never lived, but to seal the breach. Whatever happened after that depended on the person she asked.

Her shoulders hunched, body sinking closer to the fire. A guard nearby shifted, as if expecting her to bring the fire upon their heads, as if she was feigning the cold sending shivers up and down her spine. She ignored him, unconcerned, rubbing her elbows. 

“Not a fan of the cold then?” Varric asked, poking at the fire with a long stick. The flames grew, and the smoke burned her eyes. His chest was exposed to the air, but if it bothered him, he didn’t let it show on his face. She didn’t think he was speaking to her, and left him to his conversation with whoever had caught his eyes. 

He laughed, though no one said anything, and it struck her the dwarf might be a little on the mad side. Anyone who volunteered for this was a brave and unusual sort - which meant half of the Inquisition was a little questionable. More than half maybe, she couldn’t see them purposely conscripting people the way they did her. 

Is it conscription if you’re a prisoner, or is that what all conscripts are regardless? 

The silence returned. Ophelia drew her knees up, chin resting on her folded arms. If she crept any closer to the fire, she would set her hair alight, the dark strands long since fallen from her usual braid and floating around her back. The weight warmed her neck and ears, acting as a shield from the cold. It was a small consolation for the way the wind ripped it around her face in a mess of tangles she would have to repair with fingers alone.

“They won’t toss you into a cell for talking, Trevelyan.” 

Her head shot up, confused. “What?” 

“There she is, I thought you were a second away from leaping upon the flames. Please don't turn my campfire into your final stand, they don’t treat their prisoners bad enough to necessitate how long it'll take for the smell to clear.” Varric, satisfied to have her attention, took a dignified seat on one of the logs across from her, watching her over the flames. "Take it from someone who was a prisoner, too."

“Was,” she pointed out. “But not anymore?” 

“Hawke is the Inquisitor now - shocking, I know - and she’s not going to hold me hostage,” he said, snorting, finding the idea laughable.

Given what she knew about the Champion and her friendship with the dwarf beside her, it would be unusual if she kept her friend here as a prisoner. Releasing him officially might have been her first act as Inquisitor, a stipulation for taking the role, or the first thing she did upon landing on the mountain. With or without anyone's approval.

“Took a lot of effort to talk her into letting me help out. Some people have a real hero complex, and she’s one of them. Trust that she won’t let you die unless you deserve it.” 

The man certainly hadn’t needed Hawke’s permission to stay, or needed someone to talk him into it. Ophelia recalled his conversation with Cassandra on their way to close the breach. The Inquisition needed him - and Varric had answered the unspoken call. He was a man of some honor, which was more than she could say of most others. Herself included, it seemed, having ignored the very thing that he had pledged himself. 

Hawke wouldn’t let her die unless she deserved it, huh? Who would be the judge of that? 

Varric didn’t need a response. “I’d be more worried about the people outside the Inquisition than the ones inside. Most of the people here remember you from the breach, I think they’ve got the right idea of you already.” 

Closing the breach felt like a lifetime ago, though a cursory look around the little camp didn’t suggest much change. More people milling around than she recalled in the valley, and more lingering glances, some outright hostile, and others… dubious. Uncertain. Ophelia returned her gaze to the fire, thumb tapping against her arm. “What idea do you have of me then? I need a translation for the looks I’m getting from others, because it feels more like the gaze of a templar than people who believe me.” 

He studied her. She didn’t know what to make of the sudden shrewdness in his gaze, and it occurred to her how little she knew about his opinion for her. In her trek up the breach, Varric’s wry humor had been a nice anchor to the chaos around them and his questions hadn’t veered too far in any direction. Innocent, or guilty, it hadn’t made a difference to him at the time. He had experience with mages, the good and the bad, and she wondered for a moment if he saw more Anders or Bethany Hawke in her. 

She preferred to be more like sunshine than storm clouds. It made her wish she was more skilled in fire magic, that she hadn’t branched off into the exhilaration of lightning and all the storms it entailed. Whatever he thought of her though, Ophelia hoped her ending was better. 

Varric chuckled. She didn’t know what was amusing about all of this - but it wasn’t his life hanging in the balance, was it? “I didn’t mean people knew you, just that they had enough of one to hold off on any knives in the back until we have proof either way. Well, everyone except the Nightingale, but her job seems to require holding a knife to every person’s back so I wouldn’t count that against you.”

“How gracious of you to give me a chance,” she retorted without much heat.

It was hard to summon snark when she was walking on borrowed time again, waiting for the moment the axe would fall. Not until the breach was fully gone, she reminded herself stubbornly, plenty of time for her to find a shred of innocence. For the Inquisition to find something that meant she wasn’t at fault. 

Maybe Ostwick had her records, and they could see how poor her studies had gone. It was nothing short of a miracle that Ophelia had managed to beat her harrowing after all, and while she had improved since then, it wasn’t much. Someone from Ostwick would-- 

Maker, where were the people from Ostwick? Ophelia lifted her chin, and spared another glance around her for a familiar face. None of them, and she returned her gaze to Varric. He was watching her, curiosity written across his face. “I am ill-suited for acts of that magnitude, I am neither smart nor strong. If someone from Ostwick was here, they would confirm as much,” she suggested tentatively, wondering if any of them were even alive. A cold thought struck her.  _ What if they were killed for knowing her? _

Her worry didn't show on her face. Varric replied as though she wasn't caught in a tempest. “We have a couple of mages around here, but I could only tell you which ones weren’t in a circle at all, not what specific circle they hail from.” 

Ophelia stopped, confusion returning with a vengeance. Good, better than fear, and she latched onto it. “How can you tell?” she asked curiously, voice shaking. If Ophelia saw them fight, it was usually easier to tell who had an enchanter teaching over their shoulder and templars waiting in the shadows versus someone who learned on their own, but she doubted Varric would know the difference. Or considering his stories at Kirkwall, maybe he did know better than her. She had only met apostates in the last few months, but Kirkwall seemed to have them bursting from every shadow filled corner. 

“Circle trained don’t carry their staff. The rest do, like they expect any moment someone will attack them. I thought it was a bit strange, you’d think someone on the run would want to hide their staff.” 

Put that way, Ophelia didn’t find it surprising. She smiled lightly, shifting a little to face him fully, a remnant of once ingrained manners. “Contrary to what you think about our time in the Circles, we didn’t study magic the entire time. I learned to juggle, and a friend of mine learned to sing acapella. We read books for the fun of it - most were Chantry approved though, so I couldn’t say it was actually fun,” she said, snorting. Short-lived humor, but enough to loosen the feel of a noose around her neck bit by bit. “We didn’t have to carry a staff, we weren’t… afraid. I mean, we were, but it was different? It wasn’t the same as someone on the run? I don’t know.” 

Varric didn’t say anything, unflinching gaze on hers.

Hurriedly, she continued on, voice fast and low, hit by the awareness of people around them. Deciphering her words, picking the parts that suited their goals rather than the ones she was trying to convey. “I’m butchering this, because it sounds like a life in the Circle was easier, but that’s not the case.”

“Didn’t think that. If any of them are a fraction like the things Sunshine dealt with in Kirkwall then I understand,” he said. A question rattled around his eyes, but never made it to his tongue.

She nodded. “I’m a Trevelyan. My family has templars in every circle in the Free Marches and hurting me would be a slight against them.” It was why she had found it so easy to like the templars. So easy to love one of them, really, and she hadn’t realized the mistake of it until much later. “That didn’t spare everyone else. I just understand why someone running would want it handy. Since we’ve left the circle, I haven’t let mine out of sight. Until now.” Her words ended with a sigh.

“Must feel strange not having it,” he commented. Her hand drifted to her back, reaching for something that was no longer there. She wondered if the strange urge to lean forward when she walked was because it was no longer on her back. Sometime since the circles had fallen, Ophelia had become used to the weight of it and the safety it presented when she held it. 

She shrugged, feigning a comfort she didn’t feel, thumb tapping faster. “It’s funny now that I think about it, I don’t know if your method will work anymore. I’ve seen more mages carry a staff in the circle those last few months than I did my entire life.”

He arched an eyebrow. “The world is spewing demons wherever we turn, I’m not surprised.”

“Even before that. When we traveled from Ostwick, no one traveled without some weapon, something to defend themselves. If you sense a threat, if you feel uneasy, you’re going to grab something to protect you. It’s no different for the mages. We grabbed a staff, and the people grabbed the templars. The fighting was inevitable." 

“You’re starting to sound like you don’t blame the templars.” 

Her brow furrowed, annoyed. “What? No, of course I do, I blame every single templar who led us down this road, but I have to look beyond that. I have to look at the real threat. There is no future for the mages that doesn’t end badly, the Chantry made sure of that,” she said, growing tense the longer she spoke. Her family was devout, and while she didn’t follow the Chantry with the same overzealous piety of her family, she did follow the teachings. She did believe in the Maker. 

Why did He make it so hard?

Varric shrugged. “The Chantry holding onto the templars didn’t do them much good, if you hadn’t heard.” 

Ophelia let out a breath, grasping the shift in topic gratefully. “Uh, yes. Something about Val Royeaux?” She had only heard loose rumors, and surely they were exaggerated. “I heard one of them hit a cleric and that’s just--” 

He grimaced. “Now, I’m in for a laugh as much as the next person, and she was calling Hawke some very uncreative names, but even I couldn’t laugh at it.” 

Ophelia stared, aghast. Attacking clerics was so obviously against everything Andraste wanted from them that Ophelia couldn’t fathom it. The templars as a whole couldn’t be so corrupt -- and yet this was the least of their crimes. 

She pictured the ones in the Ostwick, her gut tightening. Some templars she learned to ignore, and they her, but there were some with a gaze so wrong that she couldn’t bear to be in the same room as them without wanting to hold something as a shield. Those were the templars she could see hitting a cleric, or sneaking into an apprentices room, or killing for the sake of it. Ophelia wondered how many templars thought the same, hidden beneath a blank demeanor. Waiting for an excuse. 

“I don’t like that,” she said, nose wrinkling with distaste. “Punching clerics is like punching a child: you can physically do it, but you shouldn’t. Not that the world pays attention to things they shouldn’t do.” Like treating others as animals, like taking babes from their arms, like letting them die in the name of fear. 

Varric laughed, unaware of her turn in thoughts. “This is the most you’ve said in a while.”

Her face reddened. He wasn’t wrong, she had forgotten what it was like to simply talk with someone who listened and talked back that she had lost track of where she was.  _ What  _ she was. “Should I be quiet?” 

“No, trust me, the silence will bite you in the ass. But for your earlier question before we decided to debate the merits of mages - I thought those days were behind me, too - I couldn’t tell you if someone from Ostwick is here. Sounds like a question for Curly or Ruffles. Nightingale, if you’re feeling brave.” 

The conversation hadn’t involved life, death, or the breach, and Ophelia had almost forgotten why she asked in the first place. Puzzled at the nicknames, she sent him a bemused look. “I have no idea who those people are.” Except one. 

He held up his hand, ticking them off with his fingers. “Curly is the Commander. Ruffles is our ambassador. Nightingale is the spymaster. You’re probably more familiar with them than me sometimes with your status.” 

“Oh.” She could see all of the names except for one. “Why is his name Curly?” 

“I knew him when he was the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall, and he’s a lot more put together now than he was then. Still has a stick up his ass, but he’s worked out some wrinkles and curls,” he explained, though it answered fewer of her questions than she wanted. She held her tongue from asking more, still reeling. 

He was a templar, she had known it from his stance and the feel of lyrium emitting from his skin, but  _ that  _ templar? The one from Kirkwall? Varric hadn’t been complimentary about him in his book, and yet she couldn’t connect the two images of the man in her head. Her previous conversation with him had been brief, but polite, and almost kind. She had thought him a good man.

The man in the Tale of the Champion would not have reassured a mage, let alone one that was the main suspect in a horrible attack. 

A braver woman would ask him, but Ophelia had long since accepted her own cowardice. Whatever questions she had for Commander Cullen would have to wait, she didn't want to see him. Didn't want to know what he really thought.

She needed to know about the people from Ostwick, though. Not just to verify if she was the last one, but if anyone could help verify her innocence, it was them. 

…

...

Her flight hadn’t been a well-thought out plan, but something rash, a burst of fight or flight taking residence in her heart and pushing her from Haven, from the idea of her breath cutting short. She had come close to dying once upon a time, and she didn’t relish the idea of repeating it quite yet. Returning to the Inquisition hadn’t changed that, but the time away had brought clarity. 

Enough to know running after a ghost without any intelligence was a fool’s endeavor. Enough to know leaving the rifts running amok would bring more harm to her loved ones than good. No matter how she longed to see the babe’s face with her own eyes, she couldn’t do it with impending doom over their heads. 

Speaking with Commander Cullen was still beyond her several hours after her conversation with Varric, but she did feel enough bravado to approach the Nightingale. The red-head was leaning against a crate in the tent acting as her headquarters, fingers stroking over the feathers of one raven absently while her careful eyes read from a report. “Did you need something?” she asked when Ophelia approached. 

“I… wanted to know if there was anyone from the Ostwick Circle with the Inquisition. Most of them would have died in the… in the Conclave,” Ophelia said, unnerved. Leliana wasn’t even looking at her, and yet fear was running amok with her heart, bravery fleeing now that she was here. “But we didn’t send everyone.”

“We did receive some people claiming to be from the Ostwick Circle. Most were sent to help stabilize the Hinterlands,” she replied, almost absent save for the way her eyes halted on the vellum. Ophelia hesitated, unsure of how to continue. Leliana’s eyes lifted, and they could rival the heavens: blue like a cloudless day, and fierce like an unyielding sun. “Once we determined none of them were helping you, we thought some would be useful in finding you.”

“I don’t recall seeing any of them, but I didn’t linger with the populace. This makes it hard to roam in public.” She waved her hand, the glove absent and sorely missed. The mark hadn’t hurt her since the Inquisition had picked her up, either from Solas prodding at it not long after Hawke released her from her first and only war council meeting, or from the fact that she was eating and resting somewhat properly. It still bothered her, the sight of it a grisly reminder of things she’d rather avoid. 

“You appeared well-liked among your peers. Linnea, in particular, had much to say.” 

Ophelia smiled. “Linnea is quiet, and I didn’t talk with her much, but I’m glad she’s alright.” 

“She disappeared in the Hinterlands, we believe she’s gone to join the rebel mages,” Leliana said bluntly. 

“Oh.” Ophelia’s thumb, purposely stilled during this conversation, twitched against her forefinger. Well, what was she supposed to say to  _ that _ ? “I guess if she isn’t one of the mages throwing fireballs at people, that’s good. She didn’t seem the rebellious type, but I didn’t know her much, we had different mentors and friends.” 

Leliana’s expression and tone betrayed only a slight curiosity and little else. It was like trying to decipher a stone wall, and she wasn’t any more skilled at masonry than she was at reading people. “Why didn’t you join them?” 

This question didn’t bother her, and a response came to her lips without pause. “I didn’t know where they were, and I didn’t know what they were going to do. Mostly, it seemed risky. Would it doom their cause if they helped me? Would they even help me? We might be mages, but I don’t know them and they don’t know me. I don’t want people to die for me.” 

“Yet you could leave, knowing people would die?” she asked, eyebrows raised. 

She looked down, arms crossing over her midsection. She was doing her best not to think about the many lives lost because she had placed her lives above their own. “I wasn’t thinking about that when I left.”

“What were you thinking then?” Leliana sounded so remarkably like her mother for a moment that her eyes lifted from the ground, stance straightening, as if the phantom touch of her mother’s upon her back were forcing her into a proper position. Leliana regarded her with a split second of confusion before she settled herself. 

Ophelia considered lying just out of spite, but she thought Leliana would know. It was probably a blessing that Leliana wasn’t a mage, or maybe a pity given someone like her could change the world with just a look. “I wanted to see my family one more time.” It wasn’t the total truth, but the idea of saying more brought the taste of ash to her mouth. 

Memories rose of a sharp pain, and a small cry, and her arms, bereft of the person she longed to hold. She forced herself to not think about it. Not in front of her. The Spymaster of the Inquisition was staring hard at her, peering through the layers of her clothes and her bones to the soul inside her. Such things, such feelings, were not for the Inquisition to know. 

They didn't trust her. It occurred to Ophelia that she wasn't sure she trusted them. 

“Commander Cullen would have a better idea of who is still lingering in Haven," she said finally, dismissing Ophelia. Her gaze returned to her report, but she wasn't sure if the woman was reading it any longer. 

“Thank you, that’s all I wanted to know,” she said, voice wavering only a little. An unfeigned shiver was explanation enough for the tremble as she spoke. “Good day, Sister Nightingale. I will leave you to your duties.”

Leliana didn’t respond, and Ophelia could feel the eyes resting on her back as she fled to the front gates, wishing she had asked Cullen from the beginning. 

Footsteps followed her, but she didn’t look back as her shadow fell into step several feet behind her. “You needn’t hide,” she reminded the scout. Nothing about him was memorable: sandy hair, lanky build, brown eyes. All the better for following her around, protecting the Inquisition. 

“Yes, I’m aware,” he responded dryly. “I am required to keep approximately six feet of distance and no further than fifteen.” She heaved a sigh when he continued standing apart from her like she held a plague. 

Most people reacted that way, she noticed. People jumped out of her path as she made her way to where Cullen trained his soldiers. "What's happening?"

"The Inquisitor has decided to take you with her to the Hinterlands with her strike team," her shadow said. 

"Oh. Right, I remember." Hawke had told her that morning, it was what had drawn her to Varric's fire over the others. A longing to speak with someone, even if she hadn't found the words without his prodding.

She halted away from the soldiers, uncertainty creeping through her. Their fighting was different when it was on the field against common enemies. They wouldn't pick her over slaying a demon, but without one? Commander Cullen wouldn't let them, but… 

He was from Kirkwall. A templar. The Knight-Captain of all people. Cullen caught sight of her before she could flee and he gestured for a tattooed man to take his place. 

When he approached, her shadow straightened his spine. She had thought him one of Leliana's people, but now? No, he must have been a soldier. “Lady Trevelyan, welcome back,” he said, inclining his head in greeting. “Dara, if you could assist Captain Rylen for a moment? We could use your expertise.” 

From his dour demeanor and unflinching loyalty to the job, she expected him to deny. Wandering over there was a great deal more than fifteen feet away. Proving she wasn’t cut out to be a spy and read people, Dara saluted and walked away with a near skip to his step. Definitely a soldier. 

“You sent away my guard,” she said in surprise. “Can you do that? Is it safe?” 

“His experience would be useful, my men haven’t fought someone who moves like a scout yet, and they’ll need the knowledge someday. I would also like to think I am equipped to handle one woman who isn’t even running away,” he remarked, looking sideways at her, a hint of a boyish grin on his lips. His gaze had lasted less than a moment before returning to his soldiers. 

It was a slightly crooked smile, or perhaps that was the effect of the scar on his face, pulling at his lip when he smiled. 

Fabian had a distracting smile, too, and look where Ophelia had ended up by trusting it. If there were any templar to be wary around, the Knight-Captain from Kirkwall was one of them. 

The Inquisitor was from Kirkwall, too. 

“Even if that one woman is a mage?” she questioned, a tinge of iciness in her voice. It was easier to hide fear under barbed wire. 

He shifted. “I was a templar--” 

“From Kirkwall, I’ve heard. I know how this story ends now," she said. The clatter of swords around her was ringing in her ears. 

Cullen narrowed his eyes, voice stiff. She couldn't read his face, but his eyes were dark. Like a cloud passing over the sun. "And how does it end?"

"I'm going to die, aren't I?" She asked, eyes flashing. Her thumbs were still, fists clenched. A fire ran through her veins, burning everything in its path. Was she dying? Fear returned with a vengeance, closing around her throat. "I suppose you are best for watching me. Best for Commander, too. Will I die because of what you think I did, or because of who I am? Tell me, Knight-Captain, I want to know what to tell the Maker."

He didn't take his eyes off her, but flinched away at the end of her words. She stopped, startled at the flash of pain in his eyes. The fire slowed, and she realized her breathing was fast. Too fast. The ringing in her ears was too loud.

He was watching her. The pain was gone, and something knowing lingered there. 

"That is no longer my title. We are all part of the Inquisition," he said, drained and tired. He ran a hand over his face, cheeks pale, gathering himself with every word. "Whatever you might think of templars and me, I will not harm you nor will anybody of the Inquisition." 

She held her hands tightly in front of her. "How can I know that someone won't when they get close? They are sending me to the Hinterlands, how do I know it's not to deliver me to the templars?" 

"Dara hasn't harmed you, has he not?" 

She frowned, baffled. "So?"

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t respond at all. With a heavy sigh, Cullen forced his gaze from the lake and back to her. “What makes you think Dara wasn’t a templar before this?” 

The question disarmed her. "I don’t feel like a templar is watching my back.” 

He smiled with little humor. “Dara is Knight-Corporal for the Circle in Ansburg.” 

She floundered, eyes shooting from his to where she could see the scout darting around the field, engaged in a spar with Captain Rylen. “Are you sure?” she blurted out, squinting. “I mean, he doesn’t look like a templar, or a Marcher if I’m honest. I thought he was some eccentric Orlesian."

Dara wasn't her friend, but he stood behind her back and he didn't stab her. Varric's words returned to her, coming from a far tunnel:  _ I didn’t mean people knew you, just that they had enough of one to hold off on any knives in the back _

Cullen nodded slowly. “I am sure, yes, we recruited him not long after your disappearance." He stepped closer to her, hand resting on the hilt of his sword until her gaze flickered to it. His arms crossed instead. "Lady Trevelyan, I am not lying when I say we are all part of the Inquisition. Mage, templar, mercenary. Whoever will fight with us. Anyone here who can't treat the rest as their brother-in-arms won't be here long. You might not be with us like the rest, but we will not harm you." 

The stranglehold on her eased. Ophelia exhaled sharply, blinking her gaze from him to the snow beneath her feet. “I.. " she struggled. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking, I…" Her head was a tangled knot, worse than her hair in the wind. A cell flashed through her mind. A knife at her back. Knight-Captain of Kirkwall. Knight-Corporal of Ansburg. Chains, but when she looked down, there were none. 

Cullen shook his head and slowly raised his hand. When she didn't flinch, it settled on her shoulder. “You are on edge, you can’t be faulted for that. Your time with the templars couldn’t have been an easy one, they were half-mad by the time we found them and you were with them for longer. I don’t blame you for wariness, I am sorry for not considering it.” She didn’t expect the understanding, or the sympathy. “It isn’t the Order I fought to join in my youth. I apologize on their behalf.” 

She remembered her own thoughts and nothing had changed about him since then.  _ He was a good man.  _

“It’s hardly your fault,” she murmured, shivering violently enough for his hand to fall off her shoulder. He didn’t return it, lost in his own thoughts. She hadn’t forgotten about the slimy dungeon the rogue templars had left her in, nor had she forgotten the way they watched her. The unspoken threat if she fought back too hard. It didn’t matter if she was a Trevelyan to them. She didn't know what became of them, but she doubted they still breathed. 

She would never be used to death and violence, but she couldn’t find forgiveness in her for the people who had locked her up. 

The Inquisition was her new jailor, true, but… She breathed, the crisp air filling her lungs, a far cry from the dank air in her cell. She looked down, but the place where chains rested was now bare skin. She didn't feel like a prisoner, really. It had seemed hopeless in that cell, asking for someone to listen and receiving nothing in response. Just waiting for the inevitable, knowing nothing she said would matter.

The Inquisition was listening. Being a prisoner with them wasn’t forever, she could find a way out if she searched for it. It was a thread of possibility, one that she had known since Hawke had first spoken to her, and yet… It hadn’t truly occurred to her how different this was. 

_ We are all part of the Inquisition _ . His phantom touch on her shoulder. Dara, watching her, friendly and distant in equal measure. Varric, prodding her to talk around the fire. If she found the answers, the Inquisition would do something. It was different, she wasn't hopelessly trapped. 

Cullen was unaware of her minor epiphany. “No, they weren’t my fault, but it could have easily been me,” he said, shaking his head. “You know I’m from Kirkwall, I saw the devastation firsthand. I realized then how many things could have been thwarted if someone were brave enough to speak up and change things. I didn’t - and people in Kirkwall paid for it.” 

Her breathing was returning to normal by the second. Ophelia cleared her throat, voice rough. “That’s what you meant yesterday, wasn’t it? About doing the next right thing?” 

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” 

“Well then I guess you don’t need to apologize for something you didn’t do. I wasn’t in Kirkwall, I didn’t see what you did or didn’t do there, but if you’re in the Inquisition, find your forgiveness in making things right for us all,” she suggested slowly, thumb tapping against her middle finger. “You’ve chosen your path already. The only thing you can do now is walk it.” The same went for her. 

“I apologize for bringing up the situation then,” he said after a pause.

“For that I can offer forgiveness,” she replied with an attempted smile. “I should let you return to your duties, I imagine Ser Dara is almost done. I hadn’t meant to distract you.” 

“You are welcome to bother me. Not that you do. I mean, not that… Maker’s breath.” He rubbed the back of his neck. 

Ophelia did laugh then. “You get tongue tied very easily.” 

“Perhaps. I am not very good with words, I fear.” 

He was, though. She didn't know what another person would have done if she went off on them. She longed to ask how he knew what to say, but she was worn out. “No matter, I understood what you meant.” 

He shot her a grateful smile. It was like a bucket of snow shoved down the back of her robe, a sharp reminder of why she avoided templars with smiles like his own. Cullen tilted his head. “What was it you needed then?” 

She cleared her throat. “Leliana said there might be people from Ostwick here?” 

“Ah, yes, most were sent to the Hinterlands on the lookout for you, we are still in the process of relocating them to other locations. Only two remain in Haven still,” he said, thoughtfully. 

“Only two? Maker, I hope it’s someone I know,” she said, sighing. Her footing was returning to her. “Do you know where they are?” 

“Trying to set the training dummies on fire through sheer force of will, and the other being the reason she’s trying, I’d say,” he answered readily enough, prompting a confused look. Cullen gestured to a dark-haired, severe looking woman in templar armor standing in front of a line of tents with her arms crossed, glaring at an unused training dummy. The man next to her was almost dwarfed by her armor. 

“Mattrin?” Ophelia said, surprised, recognizing the man standing next to her. “Why is he here?”

“At least one of them is someone you know,” he offered, raising his brow.

She snorted. “He will have a less than flattering account of my person--” 

“He did.” 

“-- so I’m inclined to ignore him. Still, he’ll know what became of everyone else and I’d like to know. Could I…? I mean…” She looked around for Dara, but he was still wrapped up showing off with Captain Rylen. 

Cullen followed her gaze and then gestured forward. “After you.” 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, rubbing her forehead, feet shuffling. “I don’t mean to take you away from something important.”

He shook his head. “If I can't apologize for doing nothing wrong, you can’t either. I was also the one who invited Dara to show off, I’ll have to accept that he’s been waiting a long time to do so,” he said, a quiet laugh escaping him. 

“There were a lot of negatives in there, I feel like some should have cancelled out and become an insult,” she mused.

Cullen frowned. “Perhaps, but if they did, it was unintentional. This way, before someone needs to hand me a report.”

A smile crossed her lips as she followed him. He slowed his steps, walking beside her. Not behind her by several feet like someone watching her. Not ahead like a templar leading a mage. The chasm between her and the Inquisition seemed much smaller when Cullen stood at her side like they were just two soldiers. 


	4. First Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one said saving the little people was easy on the mind. Small warning about violence and blood in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the people still reading. Seeing emails about kudos always brings a smile to my face!

Hawke roused her from sleep before dawn was even creeping over the village and they left with little fanfare. The Inquisition wasn’t even awake at this hour, only the Inquisitor and the companions selected to escort Ophelia through the Hinterlands. Commander Cullen met them on their way from the stables, murmuring quietly to Hawke for a brief moment before saluting them in farewell. 

With her horse tethered to Cassandra’s, Ophelia was free to twist, spying the beginnings of sunlight over freshly fallen snow. Small plumes of smoke drifted from low burning fires, and the village looked altogether small and peaceful. Not at all the home of a fledgling organization trying to save the world. It was only Commander Cullen to suggest otherwise with his windswept hair and tired eyes. 

Both disappeared behind the trees. Ophelia faced forward once more, preparing herself for a solemn trek to the Hinterlands. Cassandra and Varric had graced her with conversation the first time they journeyed together, but she didn’t expect it to be the same. While Varric had graced her with an almost kind conversation around the fire, she wasn’t sure where she stood with him nor was she courageous enough to ask. 

Cassandra hadn’t spoken to her once. Not when an elven guard had escorted Ophelia to meet the Inquisitor for the very first time six days ago. Not when she had attempted to leave the front gates to gather elfroot and been stopped by an overzealous guard until Cassandra had smoothed it over, appointing Dara the templar scout to follow her. Not even when the group was setting their supplies upon the horses. She supposed it was expected - their brief meeting together was long enough for her to know Cassandra was a woman of honor, and her opinion of Ophelia had dropped with the mage’s flight from Haven and subsequent hiding.

No matter how necessary it was, Cassandra would see it as the acts of a coward. 

She couldn’t talk to Varric, Cassandra didn’t want to talk with her, and frankly she was as much frightened of Hawke as she was in awe of her. 

It was going to be a long ride. 

She resigned herself to playing a silent game of letters, near impossible when the only thing around them was snowdrifts, mud, and the sporadic Inquisition heraldry marking the path. Only quarter of the way through and several hours into their silent trek, she switched to humming the few pieces of songs she knew from the Ostwick Circle. The circle seemed a world away, and the songs from it were slipping away, leaving her to hum senseless words under her breath. 

When would thinking of the Circle stop bringing her strange pangs? Ophelia didn’t know whether she missed it, or whether she was relieved to see the end of it. For better or worse, it was her home. Guilt surged, knowing she was one of the few to escape unscathed in the circle, protected by her name first and then  _ him _ later. Maker, she hadn’t thought about Fabian in so long, she didn’t even know now if he was alive or not. Or if he had joined the templars on the crossroads, tearing apart anything in their path. 

“Why did you stop singing? Not the cheeriest song I’ve heard, but better than Hawke.” 

Hawke turned in her saddle from the front of the line, pointing a finger at him. “Hey, I’m a wonderful singer.” 

“To the deaf, maybe,” he allowed, his smirk lost when she turned to face the front. 

She huffed, mock displeasure. “You just have no taste.”

Varric ignored her, shifting his grip on the reins. His horse crept closer to her own. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

“Me?” she asked, squeaking, but clearing her throat when the smile on his lips became a full grin. “I wasn’t singing.” 

“You were,” he said. “Seeker, back me up.” 

Cassandra looked uncomfortable, shifting on her steed. “I…” She started, not meeting Ophelia’s eyes for a moment, a furrow of deep contemplation on her face. Ophelia didn’t expect her to speak at all, so when she continued, Ophelia didn’t interrupt or argue. “It sounded more like humming than singing.”

“Same thing when you think about it.” 

“They aren’t the same, and here I thought you were a good writer,” Hawke teased, forgetting to feign anger. Doubtful she even had any, nothing about Hawke’s demeanor said she found anything truly distasteful. Thinking back on their few conversations, she had been almost cheerful beneath her brisk sarcasm. 

Hawke and Varric squabbled, the conversations of singing long forgotten as the friends settled into easy banter. Without seeming to realize it, Varric shattered the uneasy silence. A peek at him over her shoulder and the smug smile there made her think he had known. Whether it was for his sake, or if he sensed her own unease, she didn’t know and didn’t care to ask, too relieved with letting their conversations wash over her to protest.

…

...

Hawke called them to stop for the third and final time that day, the sun so far gone that Ophelia almost didn’t see the scout when she slid off her horse. The scout saluted Hawke with a calm “Inquisitor” and offered them stew from a pot over the crackling fire. It was a welcome respite from the bone chilling cold. Too exhausted to chat, Ophelia retired the moment her bowl was empty, and she didn’t notice when Cassandra and Hawke slipped into the tent with her. 

Morning approached as quick as the last one, and she woke up to the sound of Cassandra and Hawke preparing outside the tent. They all downed bowls of stew before mounting their horses and marching onwards through the mud crusted snow. 

“How long is the Hinterlands from Haven?” she asked, rubbing her horse’s neck as they walked slowly over a precarious bridge shortly after their pause for lunch. Belated, she realized Cassandra was still not speaking with her and directed her questioning look to Hawke.

“About three days, give or take. We’ve been moving a little faster than usual, we should make it sometime tomorrow,” Hawke replied, squinting up at the sky. “The sooner we get there, the better. You’ll have to keep holding on.” 

Ophelia frowned. “I can handle it.” She had travelled throughout the Hinterlands on foot for a month, and while it hadn’t been the most pleasant experience, she was still alive. 

“Good, I’d hate to fling you over the back of Cassandra’s horse and drag you along, it’s not a pleasant experience to ride horseback in such a way,” she said cheerfully. “C’mon, then, Sparky, let’s get a move on, I’ll race you.”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra warned. Ophelia’s horse was attached to the Seekers, the one most equipped to stop her if she tried to make a run for it. A race between Hawke and Ophelia would really mean a battle between Hawke and Cassandra, a match that Ophelia had no wish to be between. She had seen Cassandra in battle, and she was a battering ram transformed into a stunning woman. Hawke was an unknown to the eyes, but Varric’s writing had spoken of a warrior, fearsome and strong, who could take on ten bandits, three qunari, and a mage all on her own. 

On one hand, the battle would be legendary, the thing people would pay gold to see.

On the other, she would be smack in the middle of it without even a staff. 

Varric laughed loudly. “Sparky? My condolences to the Inquisition for putting up with your nicknames this long.” 

“Sparky is good! Look, her hand is sparking all over the place!” Hawke protested, flinging a finger in Ophelia’s direction. She released a hand from the reins, turning over her palm to study the mark, having hoped to forget it was there among all the aches and pains of riding for hours. It wasn’t sparking, though a prod with her opposite finger did the trick. 

“No, no,” Varric was saying. “It’s horrible. We’ll find her a suitable one down the road.”

“Are you taking it off my hands then?” she asked cheerfully. 

He scoffed. For a moment, the light in his eyes shifted, expression growing tight as he looked between Hawke and Ophelia. What do you see, Varric? She looked down, unsure of what part made him anxious: her, or the idea of befriending her enough to offer a nickname. She recalled what he called her around the fire: Trevelyan. No flare, no fuss. The pause was so small, no one else noticed it. “No, I’ll just veto every suggestion you make until we find one less embarrassing. You can’t force these things.” 

Hawke laughed. “Since when do you care about embarrassing someone?”

“I’m trying to keep you from embarrassing me obviously,” he replied, and she risked a second glance. His eyes were normal, still bright and mischievous, but Ophelia didn’t think she imagined it. 

She didn’t speak for the rest of the day. 

…

…

The Hinterlands hadn’t changed since her last visit. A bright sun shining over their heads, hills and trees jutting up along the horizon wherever she turned. She spotted a crumbling, vine strewn castle from the ridge they stood upon and wondered if her cache still lingered. Not that it mattered, the meager potions waiting there were nothing compared to the finely brewed ones strapped to Hawke’s belt and they would certainly not let her check on her old supplies. 

Hawke whistled lowly, the noise like a bird. From the trees below came an answering call, and the group followed the sounds to the first camp.

“Get ready, Trevelyan, we’ve got a rift waiting for us,” Hawke warned when they drew closer, climbing off her horse. “Stay back until the demons are clear, do not engage.” She waited until Ophelia nodded before they tethered their horses and jogged down the path. 

They burst through the trees into the sunshine -- and the battle began without warning, wraiths descending upon their heads. She expected madness like with the templars, but it wasn’t just her team fighting, she could spot scouts and warriors among the group. All were worn and tired, but methodically cutting through demons and wraiths alike like it was routine.

When Ophelia lifted her hand to the rift and closed it with a snap, she realized with a pang that it was the usual for them. They had been fighting the rifts on their own for weeks. Not just this one, but the next Hawke led them to, and the one after that in a never-ending stream. Close one rift, fight demons, close another rift -- and at the end of each, she was met with tired relief and the slowly building hope in the eyes of the Inquisition. 

Her heart sunk with each look, and it brought surges of guilt each time she closed a rift. Her palm itched and burned with each closure, like someone was performing a never ending line of stitches on the mark. She gritted her teeth each time the burn tried to bring a cry to her lips, locking her limbs and forcing the rifts closed. 

When they made camp the first night, she collapsed into her bedroll, arm curled up against her chest, and fell asleep without once touching her food. 

Hawke didn’t allow them to linger for long. They met one rift after another until the nearest Inquisition camps were safe, and the people could begin stabilizing the area properly. 

“We’re stopping early tonight,” Hawke said while Ophelia kneeled on the ground, massaging her hand and panting for breath after closing the rift. 

Ophelia began protesting, but Hawke waved her off, leading the group to an Inquisition camp near the crossroads sometime in the late afternoon, dusk a few hours off. Plenty of time to close more rifts, in Ophelia’s book, but she watched the party closely, and she wasn’t the only one feeling the nonstop rift closing. Sure, her hand was liable to fall off, but she wasn’t being treated for minor wounds. They had mostly kept her from the fighting, leaving them one fighter down the entire time. 

They collapsed wearily around the fire. Ophelia was too jittery to sit with them and absently chewed on the stew offered to her. How could she rest when there were more rifts? She tuned out the conversation for a long while, her food gone and her eyes closed, half asleep sitting up. 

Her eyes shot open at Hawke’s words. “You want us to… what?” Ophelia asked, aghast. 

Amused, Hawke shot her a look and repeated: “Take out the templar encampment. The mages are a little further inwards, or I would suggest picking them, but we need to clear one of them or we’re going to be stuck defending the Crossroads every time we come to visit. You should be fine, you fought one of them already, didn’t you?” 

“Um.” Her cheeks heated and she avoided her gaze. “Not the way you have.” 

“Oh, I have to hear this,” Varric said, adjusting something on his crossbow, looking better after this break than he had before. “The rumors we’ve heard about your fights against the rifts and the warring factions have been the stuff of legends. I couldn’t wrap my head around some of your antics, and I like to think I have a better imagination than most.” She didn’t want to know which of her noticeable fights had been spread around, if only because Varric would surely ask for her to explain the difference. 

She stayed silent, regretting her outburst. Their eyes didn’t shift from her form, too interested to be drawn away. “The templars would cut clean through me without a pause if I went on my own. I simply… left them a few presents. They didn’t put up much of a challenge, I hit them with one shock and they didn’t even think to check for something non-magical.” She rolled her eyes. It had worked in her favor, she wasn’t sure what she would do if they had simply brushed her trap away. Probably die. “I didn’t stay to see if it worked, you had a camp too close, but I couldn’t let them linger. My camp was nearby, I wouldn’t have rested easily with the templars so close.” 

“Wait, what?” Hawke asked, standing up and flinging her hands up with exasperation, her light hair bouncing into her eyes. 

Her sword clattered to the floor, and she winced as it landed on her foot with a clang, her armor sparing her a ghastly wound. She stooped to pick it up, sliding it back into position on her back. The purple hilt stuck out above her head still, but not nearly as high as the staff next to it. Ophelia’s, most likely, though she didn’t know why Hawke brought it if she was never going to let Ophelia use it. 

“You were camped near them - and us - and we didn’t even see you? What is the Inquisition paying people if they didn’t notice the same mage walking by every so often?” 

“I wore a different cloak every time,” Ophelia volunteered in their defense, sounding sheepish even to her own ears. “The one camp you have in… near the lake? Um, I have a cache of items. Potions, clothes, some books. It seemed the safest way to travel around…” She trailed off at their stares. Reaching those supplies again seemed unlikely, and she didn’t see the harm in sharing it with them, but now she was starting to wonder if that was the right idea. Did they think she was stealing from them? Using them? 

It didn’t escape her attention that the group was gearing up, and she was the only one still standing, motionless, wariness on her face. Chatter wouldn’t distract them. This was why they had halted early, she realized with a blink of surprise. 

Varric supplied a question. “Why next to our camps?” 

She rubbed her forehead, feeling uncomfortable around all their weapons and preparations when she wasn’t even holding a staff. “Well, when I reached this area, everyone was pretty wary? They didn’t even know who I was yet, they just saw a staff and thought I was going to strike them down. I didn’t want to linger nearby - scare them into attacking me, or worse. When you started trickling in, people calmed down a little more.” She tilted her head, unsure of continuing for a moment. What was the point in hiding anymore, though? “And you didn’t attack mages on sight which was rare around these parts. Oh, and if bandits attacked, I thought you would be able to help.” 

Hawke hummed thoughtfully. “You were more likely to run into bears than bandits. Say, Cassandra, do you remember the bear that caught us unawares on the way to the forest camp?” She snickered thinking of it. 

Cassandra’s lips were pressed in a thin line. “I do,” she said stiffly. “Come, we should leave now if we want to reach the rogue templars before dark.” 

Startled into stillness, Ophelia gaped at them. The group was already standing, turning in confusion at her lack of movement. 

Hawke sighed. “Fine, you can have your staff now. You don’t have to look at us like that,” she said, exasperated, reaching behind her own back to unbuckle the staff strapped there. Cassandra looked ready to protest, her eyes flashing between Ophelia and Hawke, but her words were drowned out by Hawke speaking straight over her. “We can’t expect you to march into battle without something to protect yourself. Demons are one thing, templars are another. I’m taking a chance on you, Trevelyan.” 

It wasn’t Ophelia’s own staff - that lost to the templars who had taken her; Maker, she missed the familiarity of it, the one she had used since she passed her harrowing - and she knew as much when the warrior tossed it to her. This was… worse than her staff. It was made of twisted wood with a spiky point like a leafless tree, a blue crystal colored like lapis embedded into the handle. It was pretty, but felt like someone had attached a foreign appendage to her body. Her fingers twitched on it, and she grimaced for a moment, waiting for her mana to acclimate to something new. 

Still, it was a staff, and she had missed holding one. 

She let out a small breath of relief and stood up. 

“I thought she’d be happier with it,” Hawke murmured to Varric in a loud whisper. He shrugged. 

Her reasons returned, and she gaped at them. “There are bears around here?” she asked loudly, glancing around them with worry filled eyes, wondering if the shadows darting around the trees were the silent scouts or a bear. Waiting, watching.

Amused, Varric laughed. “A few. This is the Hinterlands, after all,” he pointed out. “Delayed reaction there.”

“I don’t like bears,” she muttered, shivering. 

“Nor do we, so let’s hope the only one we come across is the templar kind,” Hawke announced, walking over to her and putting an arm around her shoulder, beginning a steady march towards the templar camp. “Alright, listen close, here’s the plan!” 

…

…

Ophelia didn’t put much merit into their plan, in truth, but she kept silent. The templar camp was just beyond the bushes the party crouched in. Ophelia squinted, unable to distinguish the shadows of the trees stretching overhead from the movements in the too still camp. The campfire was tucked around a wooden barricade, she could see the smoke rising, but short of that, she couldn’t tell where a single person was. Varric did, and his keen eyes catalogued every person, counting them off. 

It was quite simple: Hawke would sneak in close enough and then run full tilt screaming like a banshee. Sheer shock should let her get a few of them, and Hawke was a skilled fighter, Ophelia figured she knew how to hold her own. Varric would then pick off anyone foolish enough to hide or run. When they cleared the first level, Cassandra and Ophelia would join them, and together they would push through the rest.

No subtly involved. No sneaking and dismantling, no cutting them off so no one could escape. Just brute force and determination - which was apparently typical enough that Cassandra only recommended a few tweaks before sending them off with an exasperated sigh.

Ophelia didn’t know enough about plans to dispute it. It seemed alright, but it did mean leaving her with Cassandra, the woman who had a hand resting on her hilt the entire time they marched over. Admirable, until Ophelia realized Cassandra’s eyes on her rather than their upcoming foes. It was insulting, albeit expected. Still, she rather thought Hawke had given her the chance to prove herself, and the least Cassandra could do was pretend to offer the same. 

She shifted, uncomfortable, knees throbbing from the odd crouch. Her mark was curiously silent, the pain from the last several days fading. 

It was twilight, the sun a mere smear across the horizon, the air becoming colder and crisper the further it fell. If she hadn’t spent a few days in Haven before coming here, she would have found it too cold. As it was, she only shivered a little in her thin robe, wishing she hadn’t left a cloak back at camp. What was the point in wearing something so cumbersome if they were just going to be fighting in a little while? Warmth, she knew now. 

She waited, muscles tense, for the sun to finish setting. When it did, Hawke crept from the bush, silent as a mouse in her armor. Varric hit one of the scouts without any of the templar’s allies noticing, and Hawke shot him a thumbs up over her shoulder, looking amused. Was this what their time in Kirkwall was like? 

Hawke disappeared into the sharp turn of the camp, hidden behind the barricades and out of Ophelia’s sight. Nervously, she stretched her neck, as if it might help her find the warrior. 

A scream of rage cut through the air, loud enough for Ophelia to flinch. Her mind raced, trying to recall the bits and pieces she knew about healing for the inevitable. Screams of fear echoed to them and she tensed more. She would never doubt Hawke’s capabilities again if this part of the plan worked out. 

Varric disappeared. When? She thought, startled, gaze darting from the place he once stood to the camp. A templar was trying to flee -- no, she could see the way he darted to a chest, ripping out arrows. He had only lifted the bow when a bolt caught him in the back and he slumped over. Her stomach twisted sharply.

Varric appeared, striding through the camp, catching another templar unaware. 

There was a flash as a figure slammed into the barricade. The wood splintered under their bulk, and a jolt hit her when she saw Hawke stand up, marching off into the battle with another shout. A campfire illuminated the area, the light no longer dampened by figures and barricades. Another scream ripped through the air. 

Surely the other camps heard? She longed to ask if they should go in, but Cassandra’s eyes were focused intently on the battle. If they were overrun, Cassandra would know when to help, she conceded, switching her gaze back to the battle.

Varric stayed in their view. Unlike Hawke, who was meant to take the full brunt of the enemies and therefore would largely be surrounded by enemies, Varric could have jumped in the shadows. 

Or he could, if he wasn’t meant to be the signal for Ophelia and Cassandra’s arrival. 

“How many do you have, Hawke?” he called with a laugh, ripping a bolt out of someone’s flesh to use again. The sight of it made her flinch, disgust traveling through her. Cassandra’s presence kept her from making any face or noise, unwilling to show the woman her spike of unease. No need to give her another reason to hate Ophelia. 

“Leave some fun for the rest of us,” he called out, sprinting further into the camp. 

Cassandra’s hand dropped on her shoulder. She stood up, and their route out of the bushes was a great deal less stealthy than their two companions. 

Bodies were strewn around the first section of the camp, blood pooling and splattered, and she forcibly didn’t look at it as they jogged after the sounds of battle. It was up a little ridge, past two wooden barricades. More bodies, more blood. Nausea swirled in her, trying to fight to the forefront of her mind. 

Hawke cackled, sword slamming against the shield of a templar and sending him sprawling onto his back. He snarled in response, swiping at her ankles with his weapon so fast Ophelia didn’t even see it until Hawke leapt over it. 

“Cassandra, take point,” she called, trading places with Cassandra smoothly. Her eyes flickered to Ophelia. For all the blood coating her, and the way her chest heaved for breath, her eyes were level and thoughtful. “Trevelyan, barriers? Avoid the shields, catch anyone that we miss. Varric, you know the drill: cover our asses.” 

“Why would I cover a thing of beauty?” he quipped, bringing a laugh to Hawke’s lips.

Ophelia tried to process all of it quickly, but it was several seconds before she nodded jerkily. Barriers settled over everyone like a warm blanket on a chilly night. The feel of it made her tense, worried for what was to come, but she no sooner let her mana drop than templars leapt from the ridge, the battle beginning once more.

Hawke was lethal. Where her weapon swung, screams answered. Her own laughter rang through the air, loud even over the sounds of battle, like she couldn’t imagine herself anywhere else. She traded remarks with Varric like they were doing nothing more than chatting at the tavern. 

Cassandra wasn’t like them. Oh, people screamed when she charged, and the swing of her blade felled as many enemies as Varric and Hawke combined, but she didn’t laugh once. It made Ophelia shiver with fear, aware of why Cassandra was her handler and not the others. This is not a woman who would flinch from duty. 

A templar swung into view, dual blades glinting in the firelight. They swung at her, and she froze, magic pooling at her fingertips but all the years of study gone from her head. A blank spot in her memory, and she would pay the price. 

A bolt caught him in the side, sending him back several steps with a shout. Varric caught him with a small dagger next, and the man fell to the ground. Ophelia looked away, willing herself not to focus on the blood lingering in the grass or the man’s wheezing breaths as he slowly died. 

Varric nodded to her, returning to the fight.

When the next templar came, she remembered how to use her magic. Lighting coiled at the tip of her staff-- The templar was already mid-swing, a blow that would take her head off if Ophelia didn’t cast-- Wide blue eyes and brown hair. A woman. A person. A person underneath that helmet, not a demon. 

She froze, the spell dissipating into little wisps of light. 

The templar toppled, Cassandra’s sword jutting from her chest. 

“Clear,” Hawke called. “One more to go. Trevelyan, barriers.” Her words ended a little sternly, and Ophelia nodded shakily. In the heat of the moment, she had forgotten everything. Her magic, her orders. All she could feel was a roiling in her stomach, one she pushed away, following the others.

The third camp was further from the other two, and the sounds of a waterfall roared in her ears, no doubt the reasons why the other templars hadn’t come to help their comrades. Two came down the trail, investigating the sound of their party jogging up the steps, but Cassandra hit one with a shield, sending him crashing over the foliage and into the waters below. The second Hawke caught with her sword, the templar hitting a tree and slumping. 

Onwards they marched. Ophelia was cold, so cold. 

The third camp was larger than the last two, the main bulk of the rogue templars. Cassandra and Hawke were swarmed, and Ophelia shot more barriers over them before they disappeared in the throng of battle.

One templar broke from the battle. His helmet was discarded on the ground, knocked asunder from a well-placed blow on Hawke’s behalf. His eyes darted to her like a moth to flame, awareness springing into being. “Mage,” he said, expression twisting with fierce anger. Another templar broke ranks, hearing his call, drawing the attention of another. 

Varric caught the second with a bolt and he fell instantly. The last person flung himself at Varric with a howl of anger, sword arcing through the air. Varric deftly rolled out of the way, and the sword crashed into the ground without hitting him. The templar lifted their blade, and Varric flung dirt into their face. They ripped off their helmet with an annoyed grunt, tossing it aside.

Ophelia tore her eyes away, flinging herself behind the nearest tree. A sword clunked against the wood, tearing off pieces of bark where her head had been only a moment ago. Her heart was beating fast, louder in her ears than the sounds of battle. 

His voice cut through the fear, and she stiffened. “Your kind killed the most holy,” he snarled, yanking his sword free. 

She shook her head. “I didn’t,” she said, shaking, fear and anger returning. She did nothing. She did not deserve to die for the crimes of the other - her kind, or otherwise. Gathering herself, she stepped around the tree, hands up. Her fingers trembled on her staff. “We are all part of the Inquisition. We can fix this.” 

For a moment, she thought she won. That maybe Cullen’s words had broken through to him as they had for her. 

His sword lifted once more, faster than she thought for a weapon of that size. A clean blow, a quick death. 

It was the only mercy he could offer her, the only mercy he would offer any of them.

He would not be freed from his hate. 

She jabbed her staff forward into his gut, bringing a grunt from his lips and a falter to his steps as the spikes drove into his ruined armor. Don’t hesitate, don’t-- She let her magic flare, lightning arcing from her staff, catching him in the stomach and sending him lurching back with a scream of pain. His hands shifted, she recognized the pose.

Again she hit, harder than the last, fear driving her to push before the cleanse could be finished. She was too far from the others, she would die. She didn’t want to die, she didn’t want-- The smell of a storm lingered her nose, small clouds appearing over her head. She let the magic go with a sharp exhale, forcing the storm away. 

The templar lay still on the ground, eyes wide, staring up at the moonless sky as if surprised. 

His eyes were blue like the woman. 

He was dead. Dead, and gone, and she killed him. Had she never killed someone before? She tried to search her memories, but again and again she could only see these blue eyes fading and the blood on the grass. 

The grass was bloodied and littered with bodies of sightless, unmoving templars. Templars she had helped kill,  _ people _ she had helped kill. Her stomach clenched tightly, and she only made it a step away before the retching began. She didn’t know when crying started, but she choked on the sick, on the tears, on the thick scent of blood in her nose from the fighting. 

“Trevelyan?” Hawke asked. 

When had the hostility stopped? 

She lifted her head, but the blood on Hawke brought the nausea back and she tore her gaze away, stumbling away from her sickness to the nearest tree. Her fingers dug into the bark, one hand swiping at her mouth, flinching away from the touch at her shoulder. 

No one tried to touch her again, and the silence was unbearably loud, her cries the only noise any of them made. 

The tears wouldn’t stop, replaced by more whenever she swiped at them. She could feel the others watching her, and she gulped for air, for words, brain scrambled and heart beating too fast. “I don’t…” she sobbed, trembling. Why now?  _ Why now? _ Why couldn’t she make this stop until later? “I don’t know if I can do this. I can’t… I can’t… So much blood. How did I? He was a person, and I killed him. I offered… I told him, the Inquisition... And he still…And I still killed him.” 

She couldn’t breathe again, the tears coming faster than she could stop them, the air leaving her faster than she could process it. 

“Varric…” said Hawke, worried. 

Her crying continued, a wheezing sound as she fought to get air back into her lungs. A solid presence stood behind her, hand on her shoulder. A murmur lost to her heartbeat echoing in her ears. A powder struck her in the face and she could only shiver back from it in surprise before her world darkened. 

…

...

Something struck the floor hard, clanking armor mixing with the sound of a pained grunt brought a frown to her face. Her head tilted, cheek brushing against the warm bedroll beneath her, unable to remember where she was, or how she got there. Blue eyes, a blank face… Nausea shot through her, and she sat up abruptly, eyes wide and hair sticking to her sweat-drenched cheeks. The templars, the fighting, and her own breakdown raced through her mind.

Maker, she didn’t know she was capable of crying so hard.

A bark of laughter came from outside her tent, mixing with the muttered swears. Someone else shushed loudly and she could see the shadow of them in front of her tent flap, acting like a guard from whatever was inside. “Quiet, we’ll wake her up,” Varric said. 

Ophelia rubbed her cheeks, pausing at the unfamiliar fabric. Someone had changed her clothes, though the sleeves of these night clothes were too long to be hers. A woman’s clothes, at least, maybe Hawke or Cassandra’s. She flushed, imagining one of the two warriors helping her dress like a small, incapable child. 

“Maybe we should wake her up, she’s been asleep for over a day,” Hawke said critically. Ophelia flinched, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, her muscles feeling stiff from the long rest. She should stand up, she should let them know she was awake. She didn’t, the hysterics lingering in her chest and leaving it too tight to breath, let alone move.

Blue eyes, a blank face...

“How much powder did you give her?” 

Varric seemed to give up on keeping people quiet and his quiet footsteps moved away from the front of her tent. Ophelia strained to hear, desperate for a distraction. “Probably more than necessary for someone her size. Didn’t know if it would work on someone who was that distraught.” 

“Is that going to be bad for her?” 

“No. Well, probably not.” Not reassuring, Ophelia thought, startled, looking down at herself. She didn’t look different from a glance and she didn’t feel different either, she mused, running a hand over her face. Her fingers trembled, different than the comforting twitch of her thumb against her forefinger, but she couldn’t tell if that was from sleeping far too long or from--

Blue eyes, a blank face...

She lowered her hand, not wanting to think about it. 

Varric continued. “If she doesn’t wake up by tomorrow though, we might want to consider sending word to Solas.” 

Cassandra made a noise of disgust. “Do not kill her, we need her.” 

“Damn, you should have told me that before I used the powder!” 

She made another noise. Ophelia’s lips twitched, imagining the expression on Cassandra’s face. For all her fear of the Seeker, she found the woman amusing from a distance, and she grasped onto the conversation firmly, taking comfort in the normalcy of it.

“...Why did you knock out the Herald?” an unfamiliar voice asked, confused. Ophelia flinched, recalling her cries, remembering the look of the man’s face as it grew slack. She hadn’t seen the light fade in someone’s eyes before, and she didn’t know how people could do it without flinching. How someone could find joy in it, too. If she never saw blood again, she would be happy. 

Varric sighed. “First time in combat.”

“She fought to the Breach, didn’t she? And she’s from Ostwick, there is no way she didn’t come into combat on her way here! No, she looked green while we were fighting, I think she saw the blood and just… got sick,” Hawke disagreed. It hadn’t occurred to Ophelia that Hawke was watching her during the fighting. 

“And the crying was because…?” 

She sighed loudly. There was a smacking sound, as if she had flung her hands up and then let them drop against her armor. “I don’t know then! I just… Those tears were real, I haven’t seen someone cry like that since Carver…” she trailed off, voice clogging with emotion. Now would have been the time to interrupt, to spare Hawke from thinking of the things Ophelia had read in the Tale of the Champion. Hawke cleared her throat, her voice stronger. “I can’t imagine someone crying like that doing all those things.” 

Ophelia didn’t speak. It was the first time she had heard them talking about her when she wasn’t there, and she wanted to know. If her mother was around, she would snap for eavesdropping, and the thought made her shift with discomfort, but… She grimaced, looking around her tent for something to change into and her fingers curled around a set of robes folded neatly next to her bedroll.

“Was that ever in doubt?” the unfamiliar voice questioned, sounding surprised. She frowned, wondering who would come to her defense, changing into the clean robes and combing a hand through her hair. Still trembling, she noticed, still shivering. “I’ve come across her a time or two fighting the rifts, I don’t see someone like that being responsible for great horror.” 

Oh, they had met? She racked her brain, trying to recall a familiar face or voice, though none sprung to mind. 

“If she’s not the person who did it then we’re back at square one,” Hawke sighed. 

“Square one is a breach in the sky with nobody preparing to fight it. Not only do we have an army preparing to fix things, but we know how to do it,” the unfamiliar voice cut through, sounding firm. “I’d say we’re several steps beyond the first one, Inquisitor.” 

Hawke didn’t respond. Varric laughed, taking over for his friend. “Are you sure you’re a Grey Warden and not a motivational speaker? Curly will start putting you in front of the army if you aren’t careful, Hero.” Oh! Was this the Grey Warden Leliana requested them to find? She had remembered Hawke mentioning they would find him in the next couple of days, but… 

She supposed they had needed to do something while she was out of commission. 

“I’m just a recruiter, Varric, I can’t say I’d do well at the front of an army. I will leave that in Cullen and Tilda’s capable hands.” 

Hawke scoffed. “Varric, stop telling people my name. How am I going to strike fear into the hearts of others if they know my name is Tilda?” 

“Your name is in the book, Hawke. You should have had me change it when I sent you the first copy,” he argued. “And everyone in Kirkwall knows your name, did you think they would just forget it?”

She grumbled, the words lost, but whatever she said brought laughter to the others. It was a very Hawke thing to do, and Ophelia, despite not knowing what she said, felt her lips quirking. Her heart was still heavy, but if the others could laugh then maybe she could too. Hawke would make her laugh, if she could just linger in her presence to banish the dark.

Quickly braiding her hair, Ophelia stood up and exited the tent in a slow shuffle, wincing at the way her legs trembled beneath her.

“Shiver, you’re awake!” 

“Oh, does this mean I can’t dump snow on you?” Hawke said, laughing, waving for Ophelia to grab an open spot around the fire. 

“If you get snow on my bedroll, Inquisitor,” Cassandra threatened. 

“Where would you even get snow?” the new person mumbled. 

Ophelia looked them over, bemused, settling around the fire with them. They had been in the Hinterlands long enough for things to fall into a pattern, and one part of it was that Ophelia was always somewhat on the outskirts. Part of the group, but not. 

“Eat,” Hawke ordered, shoving a bowl of stew into her hands. It was cold, but Ophelia’s stomach grumbled, uncaring, wanting anything to answer the ache of hunger. 

She waited for Ophelia to finish before she heaved a sigh. The noise drew the attention of others, and the side conversations came to a stop. Ophelia knew what was coming, and she shifted, thumb beginning to tap with nerves. “I love awkward conversations as much as I love running in circles around a monster instead of getting to kick his ass straight on--” 

“Corypheus?” Varric questioned. 

She nodded, but otherwise ignored him. “-- but I do have to ask. What happened?” 

Ophelia’s thumb tapped faster. “I’ve never killed someone before, only… only demons and the like, my traps were always incapacitating, never killing,” she murmured, looking down at her hands. “It was…Blood makes me queasy, you weren’t wrong about that.”

“Oh boy, you were awake for a while before coming to talk with us, huh?” 

She didn’t smile, but she tried, and she tried to find something to say. The words were lost, and she shrugged. 

“Alright,” Hawke said decisively, as if Ophelia had said enough for her to arrive at some conclusion. “That’s enough for me. I’m sorry to say, you won’t be able to avoid blood around here, and I doubt this will be the last person we’ll kill around here. I won’t sugarcoat it--” 

“I couldn’t see you doing so,” she said easily, managing a weak half smile. 

Hawke grinned. “Yes. I won’t say it gets easier either - it doesn’t - but you aren’t alone with it. We aren’t killing for the joy of it, not really. We’re doing it to protect all those people -- all those little people, as Sera calls them -- who can’t save themselves. Take comfort from that.” 

“I… will try.” 

“Good. Now, that staff we gave you? It wasn’t working too well, I see, but we don’t have anything else right now so you’ll have to wait until we get back to Haven and then we’ll commission Harritt. Until then, you’re stuck carrying that one,” Hawke said, pointing a finger at her staff. Ophelia shifted around, glancing at her staff leaning against a crate. “We cleaned it as best we could.”

Hawke watched her, waiting, Ophelia frowned, confused. “Can I… ?” 

“It’s yours,” Hawke said, shrugging, seeming pleased. “I told you I was giving you a chance. I’d say you passed it. You bitched less than I thought you would closing all those rifts, and you did well against the templars. I’d say you’re not at risk of zapping us and escaping just yet. Say, Varric, tell us a good story, why don’t you? Maybe about Isabela, she’s always good for a laugh.” 

“Oh…” Ophelia breathed, standing up slowly, not wanting to interrupt the story. She grasped the staff, swallowing as she remembered the last time she held it. Her first death, and she felt a sudden relief that none of them had told her congratulations, that they hadn’t made her feel good for doing it. If they did, she thought the tears would return. As it was, she was gritting her teeth, forcing the emotions back where they couldn’t stab her any longer.

She put the staff on her back, letting out a breath and turning to face them. 

Hawke remained where she was sitting, leaning back on her palms. The wind pushed white-blonde hair into her face, sticking to the poultice spread across a nasty scrape on the side of her face. No doubt, Hawke was the source of the clatter that had woken her up, but the woman looked no worse for wear after her spar, a smile of amusement on her face as she listened to Varric’s story.

Cassandra was sharpening her sword, dark hair neatly swept away from her face and sharp attention focused on her work. Her eyes rolled at a joke Varric said, lifting to meet Ophelia’s gaze with an arch of her brow. Ophelia hurriedly looked away, to the new person: a sturdy looking man with wild black hair and a beard with silver streaks, looking at her with sorrowful eyes. 

Varric caught her eyes and he flicked a thumb at the new person, halting his story. “This is Warden Blackwall. Hero, this is Shiver.” 

“Shiver?” Blackwall asked, eyebrows raised.

Ophelia, too, looked at Varric with confusion. 

He grinned. “Otherwise known as Ophelia Trevelyan, but Shiver has a nicer ring to it.” He winked at her.

She blinked and slowly a smile crossed her lips. It wasn’t the best of nicknames, it didn’t strike fear or laughter in the hearts of others, but it was hers - and she settled on the log, returning her attention to Varric’s voice, feeling for a moment like she was part of the team. 


	5. With Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hinterlands is a fun adventure and letters don't always do it justice.

An eager scout thrust a bundle of notes into Tilda Hawke’s hand not long after dawn, his whisper startling her from a deep sleep. “We were told it was for your eyes and the Nightingale’s only, Inquisitor,” the scout said with a grin on his face, as if this was the job of his dreams. 

She grumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “What’s it about?” she asked in a mumble. 

The scout’s smile lessened, looking from her to her sleeping companions. “Ah,” he hesitated, which was answer enough and she took the notes with a short, stiff nod. It was their first night in the Hinterlands, and her first night with Trevelyan post rift closing, and she wasn’t sure what to make of the woman yet.

He saluted and left. 

Hawke skimmed over the notes, hesitating over the words interrogation and Nightingale’s orders in the same sentence. The last time her spymaster had a hand in talking with someone, it was with Varric. No, wait, she supposed that was Cassandra largely, and the last person Hawke knew about fully was Ophelia Trevelyan. Still, neither of those had gone well. She frowned, eyes sliding to Cassandra and Trevelyan asleep in the tent. Cassandra was peaceful in sleep, but Trevelyan was curled into a tight ball, her back to the tent as if afraid.

She climbed out of the tent, too wired to sleep any longer. She didn’t have qualms with Leliana’s methods exactly, but a part of her still worried about the hard nature of the woman. The one who would have allowed Divine Justinia to lead a march on Kirkwall almost flippantly, _that_ woman was the one Hawke feared. 

Hawke was the Inquisitor, though. She hoped that would be enough. 

Nothing in the letter required her immediate attention, but it wouldn’t be ideal to leave the messages around for anyone to find. She scribbled a note, shifting into doodles when her mind wandered, but by the end, it was legible and that was the only thing to matter. If it sounded grumpy throughout, so be it. The scout had woken her far too early to handle this. 

She handed the note over and then sat, enjoying the quiet of the morning for approximately two minutes before she jumped to her feet, wondering if she could find water to dump on Varric. 

_L,_

_Templars and mages from Ostwick confirm her identity. Positively this time, no hemming or hawing about it so we don’t have to second guess them. Attached your scouts notes on their interrogation (Really, a full interrogation, was that necessary? They are part of the Inquisition, I hope you were careful with them. ~~I hope we learned from Varric’s.~~ Try not to scare off any of the new people, we do need all of them.) to my letter for your reference. Share with Josie and Curly. _

_Why haven’t we heard anything from the family? I know they refused to believe it was her the first time around, but I want to know why they haven’t done more to investigate even quietly. It is quite unlike nobles to let their potential dirty laundry go without firing back. Look into this, I don’t want it to bite us later._

_Because you’re no doubt awaiting my word, I will tell you that Trevelyan has been successful in closing the rifts. Not the most elegant of fighters, there’s been a lot of flailing at the rifts to close them sometimes, she seems to hope if she closes it in the middle of battle, we’ll be done sooner. We figured out it stuns the enemy, but, yes, we are required to clear the waves before closing it (if we can find a way to replicate the stun, it might help the rifts we can’t reach right this moment). It’s going well!_

_I’m starting to think it’s mostly luck that she escaped us for so long - which isn’t exactly a flattering thing for us, my reputation is taking hits by the minute._

_\- Hawke_

_P.S. Here’s an artistic rendition of Trevelyan being flung off her feet after she closed a rift. She knocked over not one, but two scouts and a Cassandra when she was done. It was quite funny._

…

...

Varric was the one who reminded her, and Hawke struggled with finding a way to say it for approximately two minutes before flinging her hands up in the air. “I’m the Inquisitor,” she said, throwing her quill down on the table with a scowl. “I don’t have to explain myself.” 

“Do you really think Curly will be able to handle Isabela without Aveline or you there?” he pointed out, laughter in his voice. “Besides, he deserves a warning, no point in surprising him if I’m not even there to enjoy the look on his face.” For all his laughter, she knew he had grown fond of Cullen. Maybe not to the extent he did their other friends - ten years with someone wasn’t quite the same as making friends with someone after ten years of acquaintanceship. 

She frowned, cracking her neck absently. Whatever she thought of Cullen, she wasn’t sure if she considered him a friend, though he was one of the few templars from Kirkwall she didn’t mind. He’d certainly been more helpful than the lot of them at times.

He was a colleague, certainly, and how weird was it to say something like that? Before the Inquisition, when she thought of him, it was with Bethany’s face in her mind the day he took her to the Gallows. Not exactly friend material. 

When did that change? When did it become laughing when he made an exasperated retort, or agreeing with him on how soldiers were better suited to handle something over stealthy knives or buttering up a noble? 

Hawke hadn’t anticipated things changing when she agreed to be Inquisitor, but she supposed it was only a matter of time, they all spent too much time with each other to not gain an understanding of what made the other tick. Without coming to respect them in some way, too. 

She thought about it. Then rethought again, eyes narrowed, ignoring the baffled look on Varric’s face as she swore. Maybe she had changed too, just a little. She didn’t know if he was her friend, but hey, no one could say Tilda Hawke never took the high road. “Fine, fine, I’ll be polite! But only because I don’t want to find another Commander. I already know what makes this one twitch,” she said, head shaking. 

She had a reputation to keep safe, after all, and she couldn’t have it getting back to Cullen that she was considering a genuine friendship with him. 

Well, ‘genuine’ might be a little extreme, she didn’t think they would ever have the sort of friendship she had with the rest of the Kirkwall gang. 

_Noodlehead,_

_Why didn’t we just send you to the Crossroads? Templars will listen to Knight-Captains and unruly mages can be smited, it would be a great deal easier than fighting them. We’re handling the templar camp tonight, if you don’t hear anything tomorrow then you should assume we’ve finally kicked the bucket! If we do, please don’t tell anyone how it happened, I don’t want anyone to know I was done in by some templars who are too stupid to use their words._

_(Varric is laughing because he thinks I am also too stupid to use my words, and I can only imagine you are thinking the same. That isn’t the same! I use my words all the time! It’s not my fault people refuse to heed them.)_

_Also, the Kirkwall gang is coming to Haven soon._

_\- Hawke_

…

...

Cullen didn’t know there was a report for him until a day after its arrival in Haven. The scouts, unable to make sense of an unfamiliar name, brought the report to Leliana who read it for only a few moments before bringing it to him in his tent. He recognized the handwriting, and it baffled him. Why would Hawke address him with that dreaded name? They had, so far, kept their letters largely professional and almost stilted, not quite able to reach the same almost humor they had in person. 

It got the job done, which was all that mattered. 

Alarm bells ringing, he read.

Finished, he groaned. 

Surely not… all of them? Aveline would be good -- better than good, he thought she would be perfect for them, she would certainly offer his men a run for their money. Him, too, if he thought about it. Frankly, Cullen didn’t know why Hawke hadn’t dragged her to Haven before this, she would have been equally suited for the role. But he couldn’t see her leaving Kirkwall, not when she was the only official authority figure in the city. 

The rest? He grimaced, setting the report down. “Jim, inform Ambassador Montilyet that we need to prepare lodging for the Inquisitor’s friends.” 

He settled at his makeshift desk once more and prepared a response. His own handwriting was neat and tidy, written with little flare. Only one line was crossed out, but readable if one squinted strangely. He had no sooner finished writing his than Jim returned with a note, the writing flawless and with great precision. Josephine had written it swiftly, but none could tell save the briskness of its contents. 

_Inquisitor,_

_Please don’t use that in official correspondence. No one knew where to send your report for a time, and I dread to imagine what would have happened if someone else found your letter. Your skills in diplomacy are on the same level as my own: nonexistent. As for the rest: I am no longer a templar, and I fear the people you face are beyond even the stern voice of authority. Otherwise they wouldn’t be fighting you in the first place, I do not doubt you could have made a compelling argument before you started joking with them._

_~~Maker’s breath, you don’t mean all of them, do you?~~ We will make sure it is done, who should we be expecting? _

_\- Commander Cullen_

Attached:

_Varric,_

_Please discover if Prince Vael is among the Inquisitor’s incoming friends. We cannot allow a prestigious guest to arrive in the Inquisition without us being properly prepared for his presence._

_\- Josephine_

...

...

The prisoner was biting her lip, soundless, as Varric stitched up a wound on her back. Just one of the many wounds she had sustained since their arrival in the Hinterlands almost a fortnight ago, and Cassandra feared they would have little left of her before long. She refused to let their last chance of closing the breach die, and she resolved to keep a closer eye on her while in the field. Acting as a bodyguard wasn’t a long term solution, however, not with a team of their size. 

“Lighten up, Cassandra, we’re not going to let her die,” Hawke said with a sigh, cleaning off her weapons. “Accidents happen.” The rift had taken more out of them than they anticipated, spewing rage demons with every flare. In an effort to keep from reducing the Hinterlands to ash and to keep her a little further from the combat, the prisoner was instructed to put out fires. She had done so without hesitation, only stopping to toss up barriers or drop traps before the next flare. 

Until a terror had rippled from the ground beneath her feet and sent her stumbling down the cliff near them. No broken bones, but several large cuts requiring immediate attention and a bump on her head. Cassandra didn’t think she would die, but it didn’t change the fact that she could have. As it was, Hawke had to support her while she closed the rift, and she had fallen the moment it was closed, requiring Cassandra to carry her back to their camp for the second time since arriving in the Hinterlands.

Thank the Maker she had woken up not long later. It still made Cassandra’s heart jolt. 

“I do not believe we can account for her every second in the field. Less so when we close the breach,” she protested quietly, eyes not wavering. “We were lucky today, we might not be in the future.” Varric’s attention was on his task, but often she saw his eyes stray to them. The fourth time she caught it, Cassandra inclined her head in acknowledgement. He thought the same - unlike her, he worried about flinging the prisoner into battle in general after her reaction to the templars. 

The memory of crying still made Cassandra wince. 

Hawke hummed. Her lack of concern was often something that brought Cassandra a headache, but she had learned with time to believe in Hawke. Flippancy was her way of thinking, and she trusted the Inquisitor to take something seriously if someone else did. 

Maybe not everyone, she conceded, thinking of Chancellor Roderick. His behavior had been atrocious when it was just a fledgling Inquisition, and in return weeks it had grown worse. Indeed, their loss of the prisoner and promotion of Hawke hadn’t brought him any closer to accepting them. Mother Giselle handled him, something that brought Cassandra great relief. 

“Hey, are you planning on running again?” Hawke called out, bringing Cassandra back to the matter at hand. 

The prisoner looked up. Varric tied off the stitch and patted her on the back on his way to his feet. “No? I don’t think I would get far,” she said slowly, confused, lines of pain still written across her face. “I thought we discussed this already.” Cassandra didn’t blame her for the annoyance, she would feel the same. Still, she hesitated, waiting for a response. 

“But if you could,” Hawke pushed. 

“I believe in following this through. My family isn’t safe in a world with this in it,” she replied, pointing up to the breach, as if they needed an explanation. Pain creased her face and Varric pulled her arm down. 

Relief hit Cassandra, her shoulders slumping the slightest bit. Since their departure from Haven, she had taken it upon herself to watch the prisoner, refusing to let her slip away once more. It was exhausting, and she didn’t realize it until a small weight had shifted from her shoulders.

Hawke smiled, pleased. “Good. You’re a terrible fighter, you know that? I don’t know how you managed to escape us for so long.” The fact that she near-fainted at the sight of blood wasn’t ideal for the Inquisition’s reputation - Cassandra was quite glad to be away from Haven when that report was sent in. She knew Hawke had mentioned it to the advisors, they had sent her requests for more information, unable to pry anything more from the Inquisitor than they had. 

“Luck.” She shrugged, then winced. Her hand lifted slowly to touch her shoulder over the bandage lingering there. Her mana wasn’t recovered enough to heal, or she perhaps would have tried. With a wave of sympathy, Cassandra offered her a potion. The wary surprise on her face was like a blow, but she accepted it and murmured her thanks. 

Cassandra shouldn’t be surprised. How much had they spoken since her return to the Inquisition? 

She blinked.

They hadn’t. Nothing beyond the requirements when they spoke with others. 

“I think I need better luck,” the prisoner said.

“All of this is beyond luck. You need a miracle,” Varric told her, head shaking. A strange expression was on his face, some mixture of thoughtful and determined, but when he set his crossbow aside, only the latter remained. “I’d like to avoid writing any more tragedy in this story than there already is. I’m going to show you how to properly dodge an attack.” 

“Right this moment?”

“You won’t always be in top shape, and we have down time, I need to send a few reports before we move on anyhow,” Hawke said, waving a hand at them, like she was dismissing rambunctious children. It was strangely responsible for her until she spun in her seat and eyed Cassandra. “If we attached a shield to her back and her front, do you think she would be safe?” 

Cassandra’s response was a roll of her eyes. 

“No? Okay, well, I’m not sure how to train a mage. Bethany learned on her own. Ask Cullen, he was Knight-Captain, and he’s Commander, yes, whatever. Either way, he’ll know how to make her more combat proficient. Or at least more likely to survive.” Hawke paused, considering. “I am surprised you would condone it. You aren’t exactly her friend.” 

Grumpy, Cassandra asked, “Are any of us?” 

“Not really, but I talk to her. I refer to her by her name, too,” she said, proving that Hawke wasn’t nearly as oblivious as she led everyone to believe. Cassandra grimaced, but knew it was true. Even in her own head, it was easier to refer to her as the prisoner rather than Ophelia Trevelyan. 

She ignored this for the moment. “We run the risk of someone getting hurt trying to protect her. Better for us all if she learned something, perhaps not to the extent of all our mages, but something to help. I will find out what Cullen recommends.” 

Hawke let out a laugh. “Oh, good, and when you do that, will you send him these reports? I’ve been meaning to do it for a while. I’ll go help Varric.” She handed over a small stack of vellum, departing swiftly before Cassandra could argue. Her eyes caught the dates - and she groaned. Hawke hadn’t sent a single report since before the templar camp. 

“You!” she called after the Inquisitor. Hawke laughed, lifting a hand. 

With a groan, she brought over vellum. Her handwriting was small, filling only a quarter of a page where others would fill half, but it was straight and clear. She didn’t bother explaining what was in the other reports. It was obvious; Hawke hated handling her reports, and Cassandra was a fool for not noticing where their conversation was heading. 

_Cullen,_

_The prisoner isn’t battle ready. The journey is made more difficult by her inability to hold her own in the field. She will require training before we approach either the mages or the templars if we wish for her to survive the encounter, but if we are to finish our mission in the Hinterlands, we will need to do some of this here. Hawke wishes for your opinion on how to handle her._

_No doubt you are aware of our survival, I will not waste time explaining it. The templar threat has been neutralized, but we will be waiting for the arrival of reinforcements before halting the mages approach. After the prisoner’s reaction to the templars, we believe it unwise for her to fight the mages until her training is complete._

_\- Cassandra_

Attached and dated several days prior:

_Commander,_

_You’re no fun (and I get to use it in unofficial letters, you put it in writing and there are no take backs in my Inquisition). We’ll be delayed in the Hinterlands, too many rifts and not enough of us to go around, it’s almost like we’re in Kirkwall all over again! Only with more bears (bear hides were given to refugees at the crossroads in preparation for a terrible winter, their words. Are we ready in Haven? I don’t want frozen smalls)._

_Just Bethany, Isabela, Fenris, Merrill-- Varric tells me this is pretty much everyone. Aveline won’t be coming, she has her hands full with Kirkwall. Sebastian? No, he has matters to handle with Kirkwall and Starkhaven, it would be difficult to bring him over here. Tell Josie not to worry, there’s no prince for us to impress. Even if he was coming, he spent years in Kirkwall, he’ll be impressed we aren’t on fire - and if we are on fire, he’ll be impressed it just started._

_\- Hawke_

_P.S. Need a team to meet us at Dennet’s farm, one of the rifts is a little too strong for our team and I’d rather not kill anyone._

… 

...

His first meeting with Hawke in Haven had hit him with his strongest withdrawal symptoms yet, and Cullen feared the arrival of her companions from Kirkwall would bring much of the same issues. He pinched the bridge, seeking to ease the headache budding between his brows. A break would be best, something away from the confines of his tent and the reports demanding his attention, but he couldn’t. 

Tomorrow, Hawke’s friends would arrive and he needed to prepare for the possibility of his absence. He had handled most else - much as he could without the Inquisitor there to approve it. His head spiked, and he laughed quietly to himself. Hawke’s survival was a tense question for several hours before Varric and Leliana’s scouts sent word of their successful dismantle of the rogue templars at the Crossroads.

Cullen grimaced. Weren’t all templars rogue ones now? They had stepped away from the Chantry, after all, and abandoned their duties to sit in a fortress. The questions swirled in his head, but he pushed them away, knowing such worries were beyond him. 

“Dispatch, ser.” 

He dropped his hand. “Thank you,” he replied automatically, eyes skimming over the letter without paying attention, wondering whether Rylen would be better suited for taking the recruits through their drills or sparring with the soldiers. 

_Wait, what?_

He frowned, focusing on the letter and the one attached to it. The messenger lingered, waiting for new orders. “Send Captain Rylen to me, and have Sister Leliana and Ambassador Montilyet meet me in the War Room in fifteen minutes,” he directed, folding the vellum once more and the messenger ran off. 

His desk was littered with half-finished reports and letters. He straightened them, more to keep himself focused on something rather than how his hands were trembling or the way his head throbbed with another sharp ache. The tent flap opened, and the jolt of wind knocked over his neat piles. 

“You’ve seen better days, Cullen,” Rylen said with a grin and only the slightest crease of worry in his eyes, leaving Cullen to wonder how much his second-in-command suspected. 

His decision to stop lyrium wasn’t something he shared with all of his people. If he failed, he didn’t want it hanging over their heads, a worry for those who would like to follow in his footsteps. He didn’t want his weakness to drain someone else’s strength. None of these thoughts, however, were prudent to why he called Rylen here. “Run the recruits through their drills tomorrow. If Leliana can spare him, I would like Dara to spar again, but if not, the lieutenant will have to handle it,” he said with a sigh. 

“Aye, consider it done. Some of the soldiers have been itching for a chance to fight him again, this will satisfy their complaints for a time.”

Everyone was antsy to move on the breach, regardless of their lack of allies. He couldn’t blame them, their numbers had dwindled with the nonstop battles against the rift and the more rifts they found, the harder it became to defend the people from them. The sooner they closed the breach, the sooner they could make larger steps to fixing things. 

The sooner they could find answers. 

“With the Inquisitor closing rifts in the Hinterlands, we’ll have soldiers returning back for new assignments. Once they see progress, it will be less like beating our heads against a rock for some of them,” Cullen said. “Imagine our allies will have an easier time finding us -- and recruits, too -- now that the crossroads are a little more clear.” 

“Successfully beat the rogue templars, did they? Suppose all of us are rogue, though, given we didn’t follow the lot of them to the middle of nowhere.” Rylen shrugged, unconcerned with the idea. 

“Don’t forget the part where you joined a heretical movement led by the woman who started the rebellion. Perhaps you are right, perhaps the real rogue templar here is you.” Cullen grinned as Rylen laughed. 

“Drink in the tavern later?” 

His smile slipped, but only some. “Afraid not, I’ll have work to do before the night is done. This meeting might take a while.”

“Next time, you can’t avoid me forever, Rutherford,” he replied with a snort. “If that was all?”

He inclined his head and Rylen departed with a salute. For several seconds, Cullen didn’t move, letting out a slow breath. Since taking over the position as commander, there was something of a wall between him and the people he considered friends, one that he imposed and manned on his own for reasons beyond him. 

Someday, he would breach it and find balance. Today wasn’t that day, though. 

Leliana and Josephine required an update on Hawke, and he set out for the War Room a little later than he anticipated. Thankfully, they were just arriving as he did, brows raised in question. “Did something happen?” Leliana asked, scanning over his face. Ah, she knew then, and it didn’t surprise him. 

“You haven’t read then?” he asked, handing over the letter from Cassandra and Hawke to her. 

Leliana scanned it over and then handed it over to Josephine. When the ambassador finished reading, Leliana folded her hands in front of her. “Ah, this explains the delay. I did not consider the possibility that Ophelia was untrained, she was out of our hands for so long that I assumed she had some skill,” she said, frowning. “Tilda intended to close the rifts and root out the templars and mages from the Crossroads before returning, she should have completed more by now.” 

Josephine twisted her quill around her fingers. “I am more relieved to find Prince Vael is no longer going to find himself in Haven.”

Cullen and Leliana exchanged looks. 

“Lady Trevelyan is traveling with some of our strongest people, I have no fear they will accomplish their tasks before long and with little injury,” she clarified, a smile crossing her lips. 

“Were you not the one worried that they had been mauled or horrifically disfigured by a ghastly bear?” Cullen said, lips twitching. 

“I always have perfect faith in our Inquisitor,” she said simply. 

“Be that as it may,” he said with a shake of his head. “We still need to consider how to handle her. The idea of sending anyone out there without proper training, especially one so important, does not fill me with ease. If Lady Trevelyan does not get hurt herself then certainly someone else will while protecting her.” 

“Indeed. Perhaps a tutor?” Josephine didn’t frown, he didn’t know if she was capable of it sometimes, but her brows did crease a little in thought. 

“Or time with the recruits. Learn from the bottom, as all the rest do,” Cullen suggested. “There are some of my people in the Hinterlands who can assist while they are out there.” 

Silence settled over them, each lost in their own thoughts. He wished Cassandra had said more in her letter, or given him some idea of what Ophelia’s shortcomings were so they could properly counteract them. It wasn’t like the Seeker to have such a bereft of information.

Josephine latched onto another portion of the letter. “Do you have a team nearby, or shall I contact the arl for assistance with the rift?”

It took him a moment to process her words, and then he nodded. “I have a team in mind, but I will let Hawke know that we have more reinforcements if we need them,” he assured her. 

“Very well,” she said, scratching it off her list.

The silence returned. He thought the recruits the best idea, though a tutor wouldn’t be a terrible idea. It unsettled him how little he had thought about this possibility, and he cursed himself for that failure. His responsibility was the safety of everyone in the Inquisition, and part of that included making sure he didn’t send people on missions ill-equipped. 

Prisoner, or otherwise. 

“We need more information,” Leliana broke in. 

“Cassandra and Hawke were vague in their letters on the true problem,” he agreed. “It isn’t possible to come up with a complete solution without knowing what happened. I had expected a more detailed account from one of them.”

Leliana laughed. “A foolish hope, it seems. Josie, we might see if we have the funds for a bard to follow Tilda around and send us the notes.” 

Cullen snorted. “Is that not what Varric’s purpose is? No, don’t reply to that, I wouldn’t be able to believe his reports after Swords and Shields.” 

“Have you read it, Commander?” Leliana asked, a smirk on her lips.

He coughed. “Regardless, if we wish for a reply, I’d recommend sending it to Cassandra. She might be able to convince Hawke to send something back -- if you have anything for the Inquisitor to know, this is the time to tell her.” 

It took a long while. He gave up transcribing their wants halfway through, pointing out they were both perfectly capable of writing their own rather than him trying to figure out how to spell some stuffy nobles full name. Before long though, his own letter was complete and theirs were settled on the war table for him to attach. 

He hesitated before signing off his name. Hawke had mentioned people taking hits, and Cassandra had mentioned a worrying reaction from Ophelia. He didn’t think the two were entirely related, otherwise the letter would have been a great deal more specific, but both still left a niggle of worry in him. 

Cullen remembered his interaction with her before leaving Haven. Likely it was in response to that, he assured himself, frowning. He didn’t want to imagine Ophelia having another reason to look at a templar and feel that same… 

Well, it was much animosity as it was fear. 

He wrote a line against his better judgment. 

_Cassandra,_

_Most mages do not see combat while inside the circle (my experiences in circles notwithstanding). It would be best to determine if the troubles are based on ineptitude with magic or simple battle strategies. The former would be better solved with the help of a mage - Madame de Fer, perhaps? She would be capable of joining the strike team for missions away. Simple battle strategies are something she will only learn with practice - she can train with the recruits upon return if the Inquisitor approves._

_Leliana and Josephine attach summaries of the Inquisition’s current state. Perhaps one letter will make it easier for the Inquisitor to respond - in a timely manner, if she could. Josephine was worried something had gone awry even with Varric’s letters. Yes, if guilt ensures speedy responses, utilize it._

_Leliana sends a message for Hawke: It was gently done . No, she did not clarify what it means._

_Hawke mentioned injuries. Is Lady Trevelyan alright?_

_\- Cullen_

…

...

He didn’t expect a response to his last report anytime soon, not if Hawke was continuing her reputation of brief missives whenever she remembered to do them. Seeing another letter arrive so soon sparked a knot of worry in his gut as they stood in the war room only a week after sending the last one. 

His head was pounding - as much from the worry this letter invoked as he was still recovering from the arrival of Hawke’s friends. Rambunctious as they were, they had nearly invited themselves into the war room and only Josephine’s well-timed and well-worded request to visit the tavern had stopped them. 

A good thing too, if Leliana’s frown said anything. He didn’t want to imagine what mess Hawke’s friends would do - burn down the Hinterlands, likely - if something happened to Varric and Hawke. 

“I don’t like the Inquisitor’s idea, but I will allow you to make your own judgement,” said Leliana once the door closed. There were two letters on the war table, the first of which she passed to Josephine. He let out a breath of relief. Nobody was dead, a small mercy, but given the last decade, it was a miracle. 

Josephine read silently, her brows furrowing as she finished the first and passed it down to him while she read the second. 

_Commander, Spymaster, Ambassador,_

_We’ve handled the mages at the crossroads - and we’ve heard news from Redcliffe about the mages there, we’re heading to investigate later this afternoon. Still think the templars might be a better idea, they’ve handled creepy magic messes before so they might be equipped to handle it -- but the mages are magic messes so maybe they’ll know something. Either way, expect news from us._

_Stole some of your troops to help close the rift in the river - the one near the farm. Dennett will agree to come along now -- I had your troops help finish up the watchtowers, too, and they should be escorting Dennett. Actually, now that I think about it, chances are he’s already shown up before this letter actually so this was a waste of vellum to write._

_You play an underhanded game, but fine, I will no longer let Josie worry about me. I have elected for Trevelyan to write all my correspondence while we are in the field together and you’ll just have to deal with it. No, she isn’t reading my work, she’s just going to transcribe it -- or explain what happened when I don’t want to do it. Stop worrying about it, I’ve got a good feeling about her._

_\- Hawke_

She paused, frowning too. “Did something happen in the Hinterlands?” 

“Nothing unexpected. I just think it unwise to trust Lady Trevelyan before we know more on her motives. Ostwick might have confirmed who she was, but we still don’t know enough about her to give her free access to our information,” Leliana said, arms clasped behind her back. 

If Cullen hadn’t spoken with Lady Trevelyan several times now, he would probably agree with Leliana. He might not agree with the Inquisitor allowing her free range of communication, but he had to trust Hawke knew what she was doing. “Perhaps the Inquisitor has made up her mind on Lady Trevelyan. Hawke is reckless, but not foolish.” 

“Or it’s a test,” Leliana mused, considering the possibilities. “See what Trevelyan tells us, or what Trevelyan might tell us others. We will need to watch her more carefully, someone will have to shadow her in the field, too.” 

“Dara is needed here,” Cullen protested, thinking of the recruits and their training. He was considering taking Dara off her hands entirely, if only because he was better suited for helping with this than spying. 

“No, not him, she’s already familiar with who he is and they are friendly. I need someone else, I will look into it once the Inquisitor returns.” 

Josephine passed him the second report. The handwriting was different from Hawke’s - no doubt Lady Trevelyan’s work. It was unsteady, digging into the vellum as if unsure of how to continue when they reached a pause, but it was steadier and neater towards the end. 

_Advisors,_

_The Inquisitor wishes for me to write on her behalf. Unfortunately, she hasn’t given me much of an idea on what to write beyond explaining what we’ve done and what we still have left to do. I’m unsure of what she has already told you so much of this might be redundant._

_We managed to clear the Crossroads of threats ranging from rifts, bandits, a stubborn bear, the templar camp, and the mage camp. Two agents were acquired - a healer and a scout - who will report to Haven once their mission is accomplished in the Hinterlands. No extreme injuries, though Varric claims he and I will have a new collection of scars before we return to Haven ourselves, as the rifts are far more brutal than I’ve been accustomed to handling. (The one in the river was the worst, the Inquisition soldiers were the tipping point in what would have otherwise been a brutal and possibly failed battle)._

_We also recruited Warden Blackwall. He’s helping us in the Hinterlands to counteract my inexperience. He doesn’t talk much about the wardens, so I’m afraid I have nothing to offer in that regard._

_The Inquisitor -- Hawke, I’m told to call her now. She’s reading over my shoulder, and if she isn’t then Varric is, so you needn’t be afraid that I am making these things up -- has informed me that I need better battle training than I have. As such, I’ve been learning from all three in the field. Hawke informs me that I’ll train with the recruits upon return - and if it isn’t presumptuous, I would like to speak with Madame de Fer alongside this, who will have the best experience in integrating magic with battle. The Inquisitor tells me this will at the Commander’s discretion._

_With the situation in the Hinterlands a little calmer, we’ll be approaching the rebel mages in Redcliffe this afternoon. I have no idea who is among them (aside from the one named Linnea) and while Cassandra preferred I stayed in camp, the Inquisitor wishes to see if any of them will reveal something. I am unsure what they will reveal -- either that I am an accomplice to whatever nefarious deed people imagined they’ve done (which I’m not), or that I am innocent and they are guilt (which I am, and I cannot say they are without doubt, though I can’t imagine what the breach would accomplish any of them), or just that she’ll find something out from my mere presence that she wouldn’t otherwise._

_I fear I am playing bait -- I am told that is what I will be doing if we go for the templars. I do not like the idea, but I am, as you’ve informed me, at the whims of the Inquisition._

_\- Ophelia Trevelyan_

He finished the report, thoughtful. “It was in line with what we’ve been told,” he said, setting it down. “But only a fool would tip their hand in the first letter. I’m not saying I think Lady Trevelyan has ulterior motives, though.” 

“I prefer to err on the side of caution,” Leliana said. “Not that I am unmoved by her plight.” 

The door opened and three astonished eyes fell on Jim in the doorway. He rocked on his feet, seemingly struck by the looks on their faces, before he shook it off and shot forward, letter in hand. “Urgent word from the Inquisitor, it just arrived,” he said, handing it off to Leliana and retreating to the doorway, awaiting any further orders. 

Cullen dismissed him and the door closed once more. 

Aloud, Leliana read: 

_L,_

_News in Redcliffe. Bad news. Tevinter magister has conscripted the mages, and he’s done something weird with the rifts. Slowing time, speeding up time, a bunch of weird shit we can’t just leave alone. Leliana, I want everything you have on Magister Gereon Alexius. We’re leaving the Hinterlands, we should (hopefully) be close by the time this reaches you. I know we had something with the templars and the nobles planned, but we'll need to come up with something to handle this, too, and we don't have time to waste._

_\- Hawke_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was one of my favorite, but also included less of the things I wanted because I experimented with this type of letter writing style. Do let me know what you think? This won't be the last letters chapter, but it was a good way to get the ball rolling on several different plots. Thank you to the comments I've received, my friends can attest that I got an email and spammed them because I was so excited. You are all very kind!


	6. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia witnesses the dark future.

“They sold themselves to Tevinter? Of all the awful ideas,” Bethany said when she met their small party on the road outside of Redcliffe. Her expression was creased in dismay, and she barely looked away from the castle in the distance, arms crossed over her chest. “Hello again, Commander, Trevelyan. Where’s Varric?” 

Cullen inclined his head, only half paying attention to Ophelia’s awkward response to her fellow mage. “Behind us with the scouts,” she supplied, getting a sigh and a nod in response. It was less of an awkward meeting than their first one in Haven upon the group's return from the Hinterlands, but a great deal more strained than the flurry of plans discussed when the group turned around only a couple of hours later.

Ophelia stifled a sigh. She thought this Hawke sibling would be easier to know, if only because Varric and Hawke had spoken nonstop about the woman nicknamed Sunshine. With how dreary things were, she thought a little bit of sun would go a long way, but she didn’t think Bethany Hawke had anything to give herself, let alone others. She looked almost frail sometimes in the light, uncomfortable under the attention the others gave her. 

She supposed it wasn’t easy being the Inquisitor’s sister. It was the reason Bethany was along with them on this mission as opposed to someone else. Another representative of the Inquisition that Hawke trusted, a support in the places Ophelia’s magical education lacked, and a mage to balance Cullen all rolled into one person. It was too much responsibility for anyone. 

“Having second thoughts on our plan?” Bethany said kindly as if she had sensed Ophelia’s thoughts.

“No, it’s the best one.”

“Not ideal, though,” she ventured further. Bethany wasn’t much taller than her, but the way she looked at Ophelia made her feel a bit like she was under Senior Enchanter Lydia’s gaze. It was too knowing for Ophelia’s comfort, and she had to fight the urge to look away. 

“I’m not thrilled to be facing a magister, but the Inquisition wants him out of the way as much as I do,” she replied with a faint smile. It seemed like an easy enough plan: Ophelia would distract the magister while Inquisition agents and Dorian snuck into the castle. Bethany and Cullen would be in charge of recruiting the mages afterwards, though she didn’t want to imagine the headache to come from that. The mages wouldn’t look at a former templar kindly, she thought, and perhaps that’s another reason to bring the other mage along. 

It made for an awkward journey. She wasn’t sure what problems lingered between Bethany and Cullen, but she imagined Hawke had a good idea when she put the two of them on the job to find a compromise with the mages. For all her lack of a legitimate position in the Inquisition, Ophelia could read between the lines enough to know Bethany was the one making the decision with the mages. 

From the look of worry on Cullen’s face, he was aware of it, too. He smoothed out his expression with a quiet sigh whenever it lingered on his face too long. 

“You won’t be facing the magister alone. I know it must feel like it, I can’t imagine Tilda has been gentle with you,” she said with sympathy. “I know my sister, she’s a good sort and she works too hard to help everyone, but she has an… unique way of handling things and it isn’t always pleasant for the people involved.” 

“I… Oh, well, Hawke has been alright,” Ophelia said, unsure, a little surprised Bethany at the sympathy. Certainly their weeks in the Hinterland had softened things between Ophelia and some of the team, but she couldn’t deny her unease at being back in Haven and once more under far too many scrutinizing eyes. “I didn’t think she would send me along if it wasn’t for the distraction.” 

Even now, she could feel Cullen’s eyes on the back of her head. 

Bethany laughed. She could see the resemblance between the sisters now, it was in the way they laughed, as if all the world was invited to join with them. Some of the weariness fell from her face when she did, looking a bit like the sunshine of her name. “Tilda is a menace.” She sounded fond, and a little proud, too. “But she knows what she’s doing. Knowing her, she brought you to the Hinterlands with such a small team to test you and if you’re with us now, I’d say you passed it. Why else would you be part of the decision happening here?” 

“Again, for the distraction,” she pointed out. “I wouldn’t say this is an Inquisition endorsement.”

“Maybe not, but you aren’t under guard.” 

Ophelia’s gaze flickered to Cullen, brows arching. Cullen, for his part, looked most unwilling to listen to their conversation and settled himself on a nearby rock to sharpen his sword. It strongly reminded her of Cassandra, right down to the furrow of concentration in his brows. She tore her eyes away, facing Bethany once more. 

“The Commander doesn’t count.” Bethany hummed, thoughtful. “Tilda tells me you’d prefer the templars, Cullen, I am surprised she talked you into coming with our team. ” 

He didn’t look up. “Leliana is right. We cannot leave the mages in the hands of a hostile foreign power no more than we can leave the power on our backsteps.” 

“But with our team? Tilda did say she was trying to reach the templars. Cassandra has worked with Trevelyan more, and she doesn’t have your, uh, history.” It was too late for Bethany to backtrack, both of the mages could see the sudden tightness in Cullen’s expression.

His movements slowed to a stop and he let out a quiet breath. He had done a lot of that on their trek to the Hinterlands: staring off into the distance, thoughts warring across his face and smoothing when someone turned his way. Ophelia thought herself rather skillful at watching him without being caught, but now she wondered if perhaps the thoughts were just too cumbersome for him to ignore forever. 

When Cullen looked up, he was almost wary, watching Bethany with an uncertainty that Ophelia didn’t understand. “I did consider joining the team to collect the templars, but I fear Cassandra is more suited for the role. She has history with the Lord Seeker and her status as seeker - no matter how heretical people consider the Inquisition - will garner her more support with the templars than someone who left the order as I did. If I can help here, I will. I am unsure of how the rebellion will take my presence…”

“We cannot hide the presence of templars - former and not - in the Inquisition,” Ophelia offered, getting a nod of agreement from Bethany. “Better to be in front of this, maybe.” 

Bethany considered him for a long moment. It occurred to Ophelia quite late what would cause the tension between them: Bethany was a circle mage, and Cullen the templar who had guarded her circle. Her own feelings about the Cullen as Knight-Captain in Kirkwall matter had faded somewhat with the weeks, she could hardly judge a man for crimes she did not know nor did she witness. Not when the grievous crimes of others seemed so much louder in comparison, but now she wondered if such a sentiment was foolish. 

Bethany nodded. “I remember you in the Gallows. You weren’t kind exactly, but you didn’t look at us the way others did,” she ventured. “If you can make things right, I hope you do.” 

“As do I.” 

An awkward silence fell over the group. Ophelia wondered when she would have a talk with someone that didn’t end this way, but after a moment, it occurred to her that though it was awkward to stand around each other for the moment, it was no longer so strained. She looked towards Bethany once more, amused, wondering if she knew that her talk with them had settled something in them for the moment. 

…

...

The humming in her ears was loud, not unlike the sound of breaking glass with no pause, and she sucked in a breath. She forced the sound away, her hands closing over her ears. Cullen recovered first, pushing to his feet in the murky water, teeth gritting as he held out a hand for her and Dorian. His fingers trembled, but they didn’t waver, drawing them to their feet, sharing his strength. 

“Where are we?” she asked in a murmur. Her gaze darted around. “Where are Bethany and Varric?” 

The door in front of them swung open, two soldiers standing in the threshold with wide, glowing red eyes. “Where did they come from?” one barked, his sword sliding from its sheath, glinting in the dim light. Ophelia froze, digging her fingers into her palm, forcing magic to her fingertips. It was weak, shuddering, protesting her overuse in the last few days and no staff to counterbalance. 

Dorian didn’t have the same issue, his hand snapping out. The flames bursting from his hands lacked the finesse from their first battle together in the Chantry, but it caught the soldier unawares, knocking him back into the other room with flailing limbs. 

Cullen dispatched the second man in the same moment, flinging a dagger across the small space and catching him in the eye. 

“My staff disintegrated,” Dorian said, sighing, disappointment in his voice. “I imagine your weapon met a similar fate, Commander. Herald.” 

“Ophelia,” she corrected. 

“Bless you.”

“My shield took the brunt of the first spell, it was gone before we arrived,” Cullen cut in. His foot nudged something in the water, pushing the sword to the surface for a moment before letting it drop. “My sword is here. Broken.” He crossed the room, yanking out his dagger from the soldier and wiping it off on the soldier’s pants, fingers curling around the hilt. 

Blood dripped down his wrist, small droplets of it falling into the water and disappearing among the murky redness. Ophelia’s eyes drifted to her own hand, the blood clinging to her palm. Not her own, shaped like the fingers that had helped her to her feet. 

“You’re bleeding,” she blurted out, hurriedly wiping her palm on her breeches. She had seen far too much blood in the last two weeks. 

Cullen nodded, as if it was expected. “I am lucky I didn’t fall upon my own blade,” he said grimly, glancing down at his arm. His armor had deflected much of the blow from his sword’s shattering, but she could see a piece of it jutting out from his flesh. “Can’t take it out now, it’ll bleed more. Nothing here is clean enough to bind it either.”

Ophelia almost offered to heal it. As if she could -- without a staff, she could do nothing, and even then, healing was beyond her, not unless it involved something a little less important. She frowned. For all his bravado, he looked pained. “Is it safe to leave it there?”

“I’ll live,” he said gruffly, not sounding reassuring at all. He caught her eye and sighed. “I’ll be fine, Lady Trevelyan, we have more important things to worry about right now.”

“Rightly so! Find me a staff, and I can ensure not even a scar will remain, I fear I will need to conserve mana too much to work without it,” Dorian said, casting a look around. “Let’s continue, shall we? I, for one, would like to find Alexius and thank him graciously for ruining my outfit. I spent a long while deciding what to wear, I’ll have you know, and I spent a great deal on it.” 

“Where are we?” she repeated. “Varric? Bethany?” 

“When might be a more pressing question,” he supplied helpfully.

“We won’t find the answer to any of them staying in here,” Cullen interrupted once more, exasperated, stealing the sword from one of the soldiers and attaching it to his hip. He dug through the soldier’s pockets, letting out a breath of relief when he found the keys, holding them out for Dorian to take. Cullen straightened, grimacing. 

The mage opened the door, dashing down the hallway and engaging a soldier. The battle took only a moment, Dorian’s magic overpowering the soldier’s weak attempts at fighting. “All clear here, we appear to be in a dungeon still I’m afraid,” Dorian said, rolling his eyes. 

She followed them into the hallway. Cullen hesitated before flipping his knife around, holding the edge of the blade in his own hand and pointing the hilt in her direction. She blinked, confused, until he patiently explained, “Just in case, I would prefer you had something to defend yourself with until we find a staff.” 

“I…” She stopped before her argument could fully form. Sweat was beading on his face and pain made the creases around his eyes deepen. He looked older, far more than he ever had in Haven, like she was looking at a different man entirely. “I haven’t used one before,” she said instead. Ophelia couldn’t tell if the look of surprise on his face was from her admittance or her acceptance. 

His other hand brought hers to the hilt, tightening her grip around it. “Eyes are weak points. Throats. You’re smaller, if there’s a gap in the armor and a visible shot, you can get them beneath the ribs,” he said, showing her the motion with little effort behind it. She nodded, trying not to look nauseated at the idea. His fingers tightened on hers again, and he smiled, a tinge of gentleness in it, seeing what she failed to hide. “Hopefully you won’t get close enough to need it.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” she replied, smiling weakly as his grip disappeared. Without the knife in his hand, he was free to draw his sword with his non-injured hand. “Are you... “ Ophelia didn’t know how to ask, her eyes jumping from his hand around the hilt to his eyes. 

“I’ve trained to use either hand. I won’t deny my other arm is stronger at times, but I can handle both.” His smile lingered, a little more real. 

“How does the Inquisition function if they get so easily distracted?” Dorian said, equal parts amused and exasperated.

“Better to ask now then later,” he replied, raising one brow, but he did start walking. 

The corridor was plain stone, destroyed in too many places from either battle or the lyrium spires jutting from the ceiling like stalactites. They went up and up, finding no sign of any heraldry to dictate where they were, or any other soldiers. The bodies and dried blood kept conversation to a minimum, but the lyrium’s song, loud and eerie, kept Ophelia from saying a single word.

“We’re in Redcliffe still,” Cullen said gruffly as they came across a fresher body. The woman was a guard, and likely only dead a few days. For a moment, Cullen hesitated, but a glance around had him making up his mind. He took the shield from her, murmuring a quiet prayer to send the woman to the Maker. 

They continued. 

Venatori agents almost caught them in the next room, but Cullen dispatched one with ease before their spell could finish casting. He engaged them, shielding Dorian and Ophelia with his body. He kicked something to them, a staff rolling to a halt near Dorian’s feet. He shot into the fray with Cullen.

Her limbs were frozen, refusing to follow her requests to help. Her knuckles were white around the hilt of the knife, and she silently hated herself for not having the strength to help them, for letting all of Hawke and Varric’s hard work be for naught. 

Cullen was in his element, however, much as the thought pained her to consider. He was every inch the commander and previous templar, keeping the battle away from Ophelia as he and Dorian made short work of the mages. His cheeks were a little pale and the blood from his previous wound was falling faster, aggravated by the shield he was half-heartedly using. 

“Do you know where we’re going?” Dorian asked. “I fear all the stones look the same to me, and I can’t quite get my bearings.” She silently agreed. Only the skeletons kept her from thinking they had wandered the same corridor over and over again. “Oh, right, let me see that arm of yours.” 

Ophelia held his shield for him with a grunt, the weight of it drooping in her hands. Cullen held out his hand, flinching only a little as Dorian drew the remains of the blade from his wound, pouring magic into sealing the cut. It was still angry, still red, but the wound looked several days old rather than a few minutes. “The battles might have ruined some of the stonework, but the interior is much of what I remember from the briefing. We should be--” He stopped, frowning. 

“Do you hear that?” Ophelia asked, catching it in the same moment. 

“The whispering? Yes, I thought that was the elephant in the room we were ignoring,” Dorian said, casting the red lyrium a critical eye, dropping the healing spell. Cullen nodded in thanks, accepting his shield back. 

“No, that’s… humming,” he murmured, looking around the corridor, his gaze landing on a door across the way. He gestured for Ophelia to fall back as he and Dorian approached. Cautiously, he swung the door open, his sword held at the ready.

It was another dungeon room, much like the one they had arrived in earlier, and the source of the humming was Cassandra. Or what looked like Cassandra. Her face was ashen, a red glow to her eyes and oozing from her skin like an aura. She hummed quietly, faltering at the sight of them. “Maker, Cullen, how are you alive?” Her voice echoed strangely and she crept closer to the bars imprisoning her, eyes roaming over their faces as if soaking up the sight of them. 

“Cassandra,” Cullen breathed. “What happened?”

She frowned. “Whatever manner of spirit you are, begone, our people brought back words of their deaths and I will not be fooled.” 

“No, we never died,” Ophelia told her, a sharp ache in her chest growing as Cassandra’s gaze swung to her. “Alexius did something, he sent us to the future.” 

“You’re here, too,” she breathed, seeming defeated and sad. “I must be dreaming then, you are haunting me. One of my greatest mistakes was letting you come here.” 

Ophelia flinched. 

“What year is it? That’s very important,” Dorian said. His interruption didn’t bother her and she slid back a step, rocking on her feet. Cassandra and her had come to something of an uneasy truce since the time she fell off a cliff closing a rift, she had thought them closer to being almost friends. Had she assumed too much? 

No, it wasn’t that type of regret. If Cassandra still didn’t trust her, she wouldn’t be looking at her with such sad eyes. It was something else, something that made her eyes linger on Ophelia more than the rest. 

“Maker, how could this have happened in a year?” Cullen demanded, his jaw tight. He took the keys from Dorian to unlock the jail, gaze swiveling over Cassandra for any apparent injuries. Nothing stood out to Ophelia. Nothing except the thinness of her face and the bags under her eyes. 

Cassandra stared in confusion, seemingly lost at the open door in front of her. Ophelia wondered how long they had kept her in there. 

“Cassandra, we’re real, this is real. We have to find a way to stop this from happening,” Cullen told her quietly, holding her gaze. 

She rolled her shoulders, seeming to gather herself from the words. “After you disappeared, we tried to take back Redcliffe. We joined forces with Queen Anora, but no matter what we did, it wasn’t enough to break Redcliffe free and Ferelden was near ready to declare war on Tevinter when news reached us of Empress of the Orlais assassination,” Cassandra said, marching out of the cell. 

This was the woman Ophelia remembered, the one who saw the breach in the sky and did something about it. Her sword was still attached to her belt, and her shield too, both well-worn. “The breach reopened, and a demon army broke across Thedas. We had no way to close the rifts, or the breach, and we were outnumbered.” No wonder they didn’t care about Cassandra’s weapons. What were a sword and shield to the slaughter following?

“War with Tevinter?” Dorian asked in surprise.

Ophelia’s mouth was hanging open. “They assassinated the Empress of Orlais?”

Cullen’s concern lay in the biggest worry, one that was still registering with Ophelia. “A demon army?” Had not closing the breach done it? If left unchecked, did it swallow the world? 

“Come, we must find Leliana and Varric, both of them will know more. I… have been here too long to know anything more,” Cassandra admitted, gaze turning steely at the questioning looks they shot her, unwilling to share whatever they had done to her here. “I am wary of suggesting this, but I think it best we split up, the longer you are here, the more dangerous it becomes. Cullen, you and the Herald find Leliana, she is further ahead. I will take…” She looked at Dorian, brow raised, question unspoken. “You are the mage who helped us in Redcliffe, are you not?” 

“That I was. Dorian Pavus,” he introduced himself. “A fine plan, we must find Alexius quickly.” 

Cassandra considered him. “Very well. If you are our ally, you will come with me to find Varric. I will meet you outside the throne room.” 

Cullen caught Cassandra’s gaze and held it, the two silently communicating. A year apart hadn’t diminished their ability to understand the other and Ophelia could see the gears churning in his head, taking apart the plan and its potential flaws. Whatever he saw satisfied him. Ophelia held out a hand, stopping them before they could walk apart. “Is it safe for us to separate? What if something happens?”

“Something is already happening, Herald.” Ophelia’s brows furrowed. There was the name again, one she hadn’t heard the Seeker call her. “The Elder One is coming, he will know you are here, and you must be gone before he gets here,” she said solemnly. Ophelia swallowed her questions, afraid of the answers, feeling like a coward. Cassandra cut through her thoughts, her gaze growing worried. “The red lyrium here is stronger than the lyrium you know. I have seen it destroy people from the inside out. Do not let it get to either of you.”

“We will meet you back here in one piece,” Cullen vowed, expression pinched. 

Cassandra studied him for a long moment then nodded, gesturing for Dorian to follow her out of the room. 

Cullen rubbed his forehead as their footsteps faded down the corridor. 

“Commander?” 

“I’m fine,” he replied sharply, quite unlike the mild-mannered man she had come to know. 

Ophelia frowned. “If you say so,” she said, disbelieving, but unwilling to argue. The lyrium in the room was singing quietly, so low she couldn’t pick up the words, and it grated against her ears. It must be worse for Cullen as a templar, and she wasn’t stupid enough to pick a fight with one when they were on edge. 

He opened his mouth, seemingly startled by her acquiescence, before he cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you.” Sincere, that was more like the man she had spoken with before leaving to the Hinterlands. “We’ll get a staff if we come across anyone,” he murmured as they entered the corridor once more, making a left at the first fork, following a path he had memorized. 

“Will we come across more people?” she asked, trying to keep the hope out of her voice.

She was unsuccessful if the concerned look he shot her meant anything. His footsteps hesitated, a falter she wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t still looking at her when he did. He caught himself, resuming his walk. “Undoubtedly. Stay close, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I was more concerned about you. Dorian’s magic didn’t heal everything,” she pointed out, eyeing each of the shadows they passed with worry. “If too many people arrive, I don’t know if I can help you.” 

“Do your best. I trust you,” he said simply. 

Ophelia tripped, catching herself with a hand against the wall while he looked on in concern, shaking her head at the concern returning to his face. No, it wasn’t fatigue, or fear, or injury that made her stumble like a child. Her attention was only half on their destination, the rest turning over his words in her head, confused. He trusted her? He didn’t even know her, not really. She’d spent more time with Hawke, Cassandra, and Varric -- and even they didn’t trust her, not fully. 

How could he? 

The echo of their boots on the stone floor drowned out the lyrium and the further up they went from the dungeons, the less she could hear of the lyrium. If they were anywhere else, she would fill the silence, but she bit her tongue each time a question or hum sprung to mind. While the lyrium wasn’t hurting her anymore, she could see the fatigue on his face and the tightness to his jaw. 

She breathed, counting each step instead. Twenty. Thirty. Fifty. One hundred. Two stairs. An endless hallway of bloodshed and broken bodies. The lull in red lyrium’s call lessened the further they went. 

She lost track of the steps, the numbers mixing with the frantic, worried beat of her heart. 

They reached a drawbridge where three venatori frantically mumbled to themselves. One caught sight of them, tugging on the sleeves of the others, and all three whirled around, hurling magic without pause.

“Maker!” Ophelia started in surprise, gritting her teeth, mana surging through her as a barrier settled over them instinctively. Cullen’s hand touched her waist, pulling her behind him and holding her. His shield shot up, angled to catch the magic. The blast of energy ricocheted back into the mages who dove aside to avoid the blast. 

One was too slow, crumpling to the ground in a heap of singed robes and twitching limbs. Ophelia flinched, catching sight of them as Cullen relinquished his grip on her, shooting forward towards the other two.

One went down without a fight, the ferocity of Cullen’s attack catching him off guard. The other dodged and weaved, attacking with their staff when Cullen came too close. A clever twist of their staff and a well-placed bolt of lightning sent Cullen reeling back with a grunt. The mage pressed on, pouring magic into it. 

Ophelia tossed a barrier on him. The mage whirled around, face obscured, and at once their movements became frantic. Intense, if only from the ferocity of them. Cullen didn’t betray anything, but he had to be tired. 

_Do your best. I trust you._

What sort of man put trust in a woman who just stood there and didn’t bother helping him?

She shot forward. The mage’s efforts redoubled, a scream of anger rising from them as Cullen shield bashed them, sending them back several steps. Cullen pressed on the distance between them and she was right, he was tired, or else he would have finished this fight a long time ago. She could see his shield wavering, his fingers twitching on the hilt of his sword. 

If Ophelia could see it, so could the mage. 

A staff lay on the ground beside one of the dead mage’s. She didn’t spare him a glance, knowing her courage would falter the moment she saw him, afraid she would recognize him. 

The staff was uncomfortable, and foreign, worse than the staff Hawke had given her. Ophelia forced herself past the momentary strangeness, letting her magic pool at the tip.

“Die, templar,” the mage spat in a woman’s voice, one familiar enough to still Ophelia’s hand. 

“Linnea?” she asked, aghast. 

Linnea looked up, expression twisted with malice, ripping the hood fully off her head. The fabric ripped, shrieking with protest as it fluttered to the floor. “Trevelyan. I won’t let you win this time,” she spat, tendrils of hair falling from her normally tidy bun. Red splotches on her cheek betrayed her. “This isn’t the circle anymore, your name can’t protect you. It can’t make you better.” 

“You’re working with the venatori?” Ophelia said in disbelief. She gestured around them, wondering if she distracted long enough Cullen could catch his breath and-- And what? Kill her? Ophelia had grown up with her, not as friends, no, but there were only so many people in the circle. Would Ophelia condemn her to death? “Look at what they’ve done, is this the world you want? You’re okay with this?” 

“The Elder One will save the mages, we’ll no longer have to cower like ants. If this is the cost of it, I’ll gladly pay it. Don’t think you’re better than me because you’re afraid.” 

She sucked in a sharp breath, the disgusting spreading through her. Linnea clasped her hands, mana surging, the air sparking with magic. The veil was thin here, and Linnea’s magic pressed against her lungs, drawing the breath from them. 

Linnea was right. This wasn’t the circle. 

_Do your best. I trust you._

The mana pooling on the edge of her staff shot out, striking Linnea in the chest. She screeched, limbs twitching, magic faltering against the weight of the lightning arcing around her, striking her with each movement. As Linnea stumbled back, screaming, Cullen struck. 

Her scream cut off. 

Cullen yanked his sword free, heading back to Ophelia, stumbling as he did so. His shield clattered to the floor, and she could see his armor, dented and broken, covered in blood. She couldn’t tell if it was his or someone’s, she could only think of his hand on her waist. Protecting her. “Maker, are you alright?” she exclaimed, dropping her staff. Wisps of magic floated in the air and burst. 

He nodded shakily, a grimace on his face, swaying on his feet. She took his sword away, holding it tightly in sweaty palms, ignoring the blood no doubt coating her skin. It was easier to ignore her stomach than before, and she didn’t like knowing the Inquisition was changing her. Maybe not for the better.

“Trevelyan?” he breathed. Flecks of blood clung to his tired face and his face was pale. Tired. Pained. 

She blinked. They were standing toe to toe, his hand resting on the hilt near hers, looking bemused at the way her hand hovered in the air between them. 

“Oh, I… uh... “ she said, blushing to the roots of her hair. Her hand fell, resting at her side. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m--” 

“You can’t say fine. You’re covered in blood, how much of that magic hit you? Maker, you could have broken your arm,” she interrupted, returning back to her original worry. She didn’t dare touch his arm, bloodied as it was, and he held it quite still against his side. 

Cullen sighed then. She couldn’t tell if it was annoyance at her persistence or acceptance. “I’ll be okay,” he said. “We must go, we don’t know what we’re up against and we need answers.” 

“Okay, I trust you.” It wasn't a lie, either. Ophelia saw the flicker on his face, bewilderment warring with a strange sort of relief, before he nodded. 

“Let me help?” she offered, walking over to his shield and picking it up with a grunt. She hefted it with one hand, walking back to him. He reached for it and she shook her head. “I’ll hold your shield. You need to rest, you’re the fighter here.” 

His protest ended before it began and he helped her adjust the weight of it. Her staff went on her back, both hands holding the shield in front of her. His choice, given he would rather she be able to defend herself faster than attack. Once she was settled, they walked down the drawbridge in silence. 

Her heart was still beating fast when Cullen spoke. “You did well. You knew her?” 

“We were in the Ostwick Circle together. I didn’t think of her as a friend, but I didn’t think of her as an enemy either. I… don’t know what we’ll do with her when we get back? Did the past year change her, or was she always willing for this to happen?” she wondered, chewing on her lip. “I guess we spoke to her Redcliffe. She was pleased that Fiona let Tevinter conscript them.” 

“We’ll figure it out, the others might have an idea on how to handle her,” he replied. “It isn’t easy to fight someone you know. Are you alright?” 

“I think so. I… Oh, Maker, I killed her, didn’t I?” She hoped her expression didn’t convey the horror rising in her.

Cullen winced, shaking his head rapidly. “Maker, I’m sorry, I didn’t think-- You still have troubles with this, don’t you?” 

Yes. Maker, did she want to stop feeling wrong about taking a life? Is that the person she wanted to become? “Do you?”

“Not as much as I should,” he admitted. “I was a templar for a long time, and they… Well, they don’t want you to see other people as humans sometimes, they don’t want you to hesitate if you have to strike down someone you know. The lyrium helps with dulling the senses.” 

She exhaled sharply. “That’s terrible. Is that why some templars are cruel? Is that why they are relieved to see some of us suffer?” 

He flinched. “It is part of the reason, I am sure, but it doesn’t excuse them. We must all find a line we will not cross and then do our best to never stray near it. I don’t mean to tell you that being troubled over death is a bad thing,” he said softly. “Just that it might be best to think of what you’re protecting when you do. If it makes you feel better, I believe I struck the final blow. You may lay her death at my feet.” The weariness in his voice shook her. 

“I can’t blame you for saving me. I didn’t think Linnea would want to kill me so badly, but… I saw the look on her face. She would kill us both without hesitation.” 

They quieted, wrapped in their own thoughts. Their path was winding deeper into the castle, through a series of unlit corridors, a wisp of magic lighting the path in front of them. 

Cullen pulled them to a halt, taking his shield from her, only the tightening of his lips betraying him. She eyed him warily as they continued again, readying herself to toss the strong barrier she could if it was required of her.

The sound of voices reached their ears. Leliana was there, quiet and fierce, a pained grunt escaping her. 

Cullen didn’t hesitate, shoving the door open. Leliana hung from the ceiling, wrists bound by thick chains, blue eyes darkened with rage and pain, face gaunt and lined, years older than she was. Ophelia froze in the doorway, horrified. The men torturing Leliana whirled to face them. Cullen caught one in the side with his blade, and Leliana’s legs closed around the other’s neck. 

Both men slumped to the floor, dead in a fraction of a second. The sickness Ophelia had suppressed returned with a vengeance and she whirled away, fingers pressed against her lips, breathing sharply through her nose. 

Cullen moved behind her, freeing Leliana. “You’re alive. Good. You have weapons?” Leliana asked without hesitation. Ophelia turned back to them, stomach mostly settled and her expression carefully blank. 

“Not as much as I would like, but it will do,” Cullen answered, his expression tight, his eyes flaring with anger. A bow and arrows were slumped against the wall, as if waiting for Leliana specifically, and she picked them up, tossing them over her shoulder with a brisk nod. 

“Alexius is in the throne room.” 

“Cassandra said she and the rest would meet us there,” Ophelia told her quietly.

Leliana eyed her, but Ophelia didn’t know what such a look meant.


	7. Upward and Onwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen experiences the dark future and cannot help thinking of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for character deaths in line with In Hushed Whispers. Also, this is a somewhat heavy chapter, as one would expect from Cullen's perspective in a world that is every one of his nightmares. 
> 
> Also this chapter title is purposely written wrong and you will see why.

The future nearly completed his nightmare checklist. Lyrium haunting him with its call? Check. Dead bodies scattered about, pieces of familiar armor standing in sharp contrast to the blood coated floor? Check. Mages drawing monsters into the world? Check. Men killing and hurting, unstopped, while he's helpless to do anything? Check. His withdrawal hindering him? Check.

Cullen thought he was asleep in his tent, stressed from plotting and thinking on their entire trek through the Hinterlands to Redcliffe castle, but never before had Ophelia Trevelyan featured a prominent role in his nightmares. Nor Dorian Pavus. Both are the unfortunate reminders that this is real, and he held onto those few inconsistencies when the lyriums call became loud. Too loud, at times, that he missed their turn, his steps slowing, relieved Leliana was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to notice.

He grit his teeth, forehead aching, worse than it ever had.

"I should carry this again," Ophelia said quietly, wary of the spymaster overhearing. He appreciated the effort, her eyes flickering between him and Leliana with worry, as if his weakness was a secret Leliana didn't already know. He considered arguing, but she held his eyes, aiming for stern and ending at worried. "You're more likely to hurt yourself with this now. My barriers can take its place. Maybe."

The idea of giving up his shield, of being unprepared for the next mage to fling something at them, made his shoulders tense. Worry increased, near tangible as she studied him. "Your persuasion could use some work," he said quietly, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"I was never the sweet talker in my family, Gideon was the good Trevelyan, he interherited the way with words," she said, smiling back. "If we get out of here, I'll work on it."

His smile faded, as much from the reminder of what was at stake as it was the pain radiating through his body. It would be a welcome respite to set the shield down, even if he loathed the idea of doing it, but he was certain something in his arm was broken, a wound he would only aggravate with the weight. Slowly, wary of an ambush, their steps halted. Cullen helped her move the staff to her back and adjusted the straps of the shield to her front, cursing the way his hands trembled with this easy, practiced movement and cursing lyrium for still holding him a year later.

"Secure?" he asked her. Leliana beckoned them on with an impatient look, but he waited for Ophelia to nod before they resumed walking. She looked bizarre with his shield strapped to her front, the hunk of wood and metal much too big for her, but perhaps she was safer for it. Yes, this was better, if anyone should avoid dying in this future, it was her.

He had thought the same of Solona Amell in Kinloch, running through the halls in search of her. For a moment, it wasn't Ophelia Trevelyan standing in front of him, but the spectre of someone he knew, walking at his side.

No, that wasn't right. For all their glances, for all their shared, charged looks, he and Solona had never walked side by side, forever separated by the circle between them. Cullen blinked the image away, hoping for a better outcome here than he'd had in Kinloch and hoping he wasn't about to see more people die.

It seemed inevitable that he would, but he pushed the thought away, glaring at the red lyrium sprouting from the ground like roots.

He hadn't spent a lot of time around red lyrium and after this, he would redouble his efforts to rid Thedas of it. Hadn't Hawke reported spires of it throughout the Hinterlands? He would help them look for a way to dismantle it, anything if it meant this sick feeling in his stomach would fade. _Focus, Cullen,_ he reminded himself, his steps faltering with his thoughts, and he pushed forward, following Leliana through the castle to the throne room.

They weren't in good shape to fight a magister. Leliana, though strong enough to fight the ventori they came across, wasn't in top shape after a year of torture. Her movements were jerky and pain riddled, the effort breaking through the carefully constructed mask on her face.

Ophelia was a novice at fighting, still flinching away, still hesitating to attack. It was a liability, but not one he wanted to test in an environment like this one. Not when the world was depending on her getting out alive. The expression on her face each time they faced an opponent sliced through him, nearly as potent as a sword. He had seen fear before, but it was blinded by his own and he was struck into stillness for a split second every time he saw it with fresher eyes. How many mages had he known to look at him the same? For so long, Cullen hadn't seen the fear, only the anger and disdain hiding it.

The masks the mages used to protect themselves were the only ones Cullen saw.

Not here, he reminded himself once again. His circular thoughts were as much a danger here as Ophelia's inexperience, and they were already in a risky position with his injury. Meeting up with the others wouldn't be much better: Cassandra was weak from weeks of capture and Varric no doubt the same. The only one of them in good condition - and given the circumstances, he wouldn't be surprised if that was no longer the case - was Dorian Pavus.

Terrible odds.

"There you are," Dorian said, relieved as the trio turned a corner. He didn't pause at their blood coated figures, or the unusual sight of Ophelia with a shield strapped to her front. Cullen didn't think much bothered the mage, or nothing he would show the rest of them. "Here I was thinking you had gotten lost and I was doomed to roam this world like a particularly charming wraith."

Cullen breathed through the sickness lurching through him, praying silently for clarity to return to him.

Cassandra was staring at Ophelia with some surprise, a flicker of light in her eyes that he hadn't seen since they found her in the cell, as if she recalled something that none of them did. Dorian's words knocked the light away and she made a noise of disgust instead. Varric, somehow, held onto his amusement against all odds. "Wraiths might be quieter than you, Sparkler."

Ophelia laughed. The sound was louder than the hum of lyrium in his head and Cullen latched onto it for a moment, blinking through the haziness in his vision. The others were startled into silence, staring at her, and she stopped abruptly, a flush coming to her face. "I… Sorry, Varric, I just remember on the way to the Hinterlands, you… Ah, never mind," she murmured awkwardly, looking away.

Varric and Cassandra looked baffled, sharing a long look before recognition flickered in the dwarf's eyes. His quip was interrupted, Leliana's sharp voice cutting through the air. "If you are all finished, we have things to do," she said, narrowing her eyes. "The Elder one will be here before long, you must be gone before then."

"Don't you have questions on how we're here? I can guarantee neither of them said anything," Dorian said. Correctly, too, given Cullen and Ophelia had said nothing about their arrival nor had Leliana asked questions. The latter was unusual, but… Cullen looked at the spymaster, and she wasn't the same woman he remembered. Perhaps if they hadn't rescued him from Kinloch, he would look the same a year later.

"No," she replied coldly.

Dorian ignored the warning tone to her voice. "If that's what you wish, but we really should know how to prevent this. It never should have happened, what Alexius did was purely theoretical. Him getting it to work is nothing short of incredible."

The rest of the group winced in unison.

The Leliana he knew didn't frighten him. Unnerved him, maybe, but never frightened. This Leliana? She was terrifying in her anger, whirling around to face Dorian, eyes half mad with grief and pain. "This is why people fear mages. This is all pretend to you, something you can pretend won't happen, but it did. I suffered - the world suffered. No one should have this power, you don't need to know," she said in a near hiss, shifting between Ophelia and Dorian like standing near them was too much for her. Her eyes sought Cullen's, a fraction less angry. "I understand you better now."

Cullen flinched. She understood him, and if that wasn't a sign of the way the world was going, he didn't know what was. The pounding in his head increased, each pulse of his heart sending another fissure of pain through him. "You shouldn't. You were right before," he said sharply, sucking in a breath, trying to force away the icy claws of memories better left alone. "You don't need to know how we got here, but anything you can give us, anything that can prevent our time from becoming another… another…"

The pain grew tenfold and he clenched his jaw, hand flying to his forehead. Whatever was wrong with his arm was secondary to the spike in his head, driving through to his brain, forcing away all coherent thought. Someone's mana surged to their hands, and he flinched, stepping away. "Magic will not help this," Cassandra warned, and the mana softened, fading. He could feel eyes on him, though his own stayed tightly closed. "We will look for the shards, the two of you should stay here."

The others protested only mildly, but he could imagine the look on Cassandra's face without opening his eyes. Her loud footsteps halted near them and when she spoke, her voice was quiet, but firm. Unyielding. The Cassandra who had helped him across the Waking Sea to Ferelden for the Inquisition, witnessing the worst of his withdrawal without complaint, helping however she could. His friend.

"He is right, Leliana, they must know," Cassandra said. She clapped a hand on his shoulder briefly and then her footsteps faded away.

Leliana didn't say anything, so quiet she could have left them entirely, and when he risked opening his eyes several moments later, her own were fixed on him, steely, with a body as still as a statue. The look sparked him into action and he leveled her with a disbelieving stare.

"I did not come this far to see us fall, Leliana," he said, sharply, unwilling to think about Josephine's absence and what it meant, even if she would be the voice needed to sway Leliana. Maker, he didn't want to know what his absence had done to them. "You did not suffer to see us leave empty-handed, waltzing into a trap we could avert if you would tell us what you can."

She blinked, face tightening with outrage and pain. He continued, softer, stepping towards her, ignoring the roar of warnings in his ears, the way his head screamed of demons, monsters, and death. So much death. He couldn't bear to see more. "You told me back then in Kinloch, you told me not to let what happen here be forgotten, and I thought I understood what that meant." Kirkwall flashed through his eyes. "But I was wrong. Don't let them be forgotten, don't let their sacrifices be in vain. Leliana, please."

She stared, and he tried not to let the failure sweep over him. Then she blinked, hard, as if something in her was loosening bit by bit. "I did not think you heard me," she said quietly. "I did not realize how hard it must have been to hear over everything else."

"It was, but we both know you're stronger than me. You can hear, I know you can."

Leliana's smile was weak, and it made the scars inflicted on her worse, but it was one of the sweetest sights. "We do not have time for me to delve into this, I am sorry, but the Elder One isn't the only threat in play. One of his minions killed the Empress during the peace talks, and Queen Anora was lost to the venatori spies in her court, and once both were gone, the Elder One and his army had unhindered access to the entire south of Thedas," she said, hands clasping behind her back. For a second, he could imagine them around the war table, debating strategies.

"Do we know who?" For any of it, he wanted to say.

"Not for the Empress. Without you and the Herald, we did not have the influence to successfully get an invitation to the peace talks, and in truth we did not think anything was amiss until it was too late. Queen Anora's venatori were some of her kitchen staff, they poisoned her, and they had to call in Alistair to take her place, but he was gone and by the time anyone found him, Ferelden was lost. Alistair and the other wardens disappeared not long after. The Elder One was unstoppable, and he still is unless you go back."

"We will." He didn't voice his uncertainty of it. Dorian's idea was a mad plan, but it was the only one they had. The song grew louder and he winced, relieved only at the new line of questioning it brought to the forefront of his mind. "What can you tell me about the red lyrium?"

The others returned a great while later, shattering their conversation with the sound of their footsteps. Leliana cast another look over the approaching group, her eyes lingering on Ophelia for a moment before returning to Cullen. "We must find proof of her innocence, no one will believe our word alone. I do not know who this enemy of Hawke's is, she did not live long enough to tell me, but start there."

Herald, she had called her. Cassandra, too. "Herald?" he murmured, recalling the murmur on people's lips before her disappearance. In areas of the Hinterlands where her presence helped, the name lingered, even if it had not spread beyond this initial spot.

"If she did not cause this, then her being alive is the Maker's will. I must believe that," she said quietly, stepping forward to help the others with the red lyrium. He did not, flinching at the sight of it, the rest of his thoughts drowned out by the hum of its presence.

Cassandra filled in the spot Leliana left. "Red lyrium is not an idle threat, the Elder One has something to do with this. Do not let it overwhelm you, and do not work yourself into the ground." He laughed hoarsely at the order to her words and she nodded her head, accepting the laughter for the acceptance it was. "Promise me something: bring the Herald back safely. Protect her. I cannot say I trusted her when she left, nor how much I will trust her when you return, but someone must do it. There were… incidents after you both disappeared, and rumors spreading of her involvement. I do not doubt those suspicions will linger until the true threat shows itself."

"I will do my best."

"I do not imagine you would find it a hardship, you were always more patient with her than the rest of us," she said, head shaking. "You did not distrust her when she returned, not as we did."

Cullen breathed slowly, rolling his neck, eyes averted from the red lyrium as if he could somehow push it from his mind through sheer willpower. A willpower that was rapidly failing, and he hoped that wasn't an omen to come. "Madame de Fer spotted her first, and she could have left. She chose to come into the room and close the rift, knowing she would be outnumbered in the process when it closed. I never thought her the one responsible."

"Nor did I, not truly," she admitted, running a hand over her face. "But it was easier to hope it was her, that we were somehow on the road to recovery with her in our custody. I fear I will continue distrusting her until I am face to face with the Elder One myself."

"I do not think you're the type to begrudge someone once you know the truth."

She didn't respond as soft footsteps approached them. "We're ready," Ophelia told them nervously, fingers tight around the hilt of her borrowed staff as Dorian pressed the last shard into place. No more time to prepare himself, he thought, gritting his teeth.

Cassandra nodded. "We shall see."

…

...

Fighting Alexius was every bit difficult as he thought it would be, but he couldn't tell if it was the magister's own skill or the lyrium in the air leaving Cullen weak and shaky. He barely noticed when the man crumpled to the floor in a heap, his heart pounding his ears and his vision wavering around the edges, narrowly avoiding the instinctive shift to attack when Cassandra touched his shoulder.

"Give me an hour and I can get us out of here," Dorian said, examining the amulet, eyes sparking with knowledge. The battle faded from his ears, gone between one breath and the next at Dorian's words, the rest of him acknowledging who would have to die to give them this chance. Memories roared in his ears, demanding his attention, but he couldn't look away from these people standing around him and the ones who would have to die for them to escape.

Varric shook his head. "You don't have that long, the Elder One is coming."

"What?" Ophelia asked, looking windswept from the battle, bleeding from a cut on her cheek. His shield lay on the floor, broken to pieces in the fight from a blast that would have killed her if she wasn't. "When?"

Cassandra stared at them, lips pressed into a thin line, coming to the same conclusion Cullen had moments before.. "Leliana, stay here, you are the last line of defense. Varric and I will hold them off as long as we can," she said, looking over them all. Her eyes paused on Ophelia and she gritted her teeth. The mage flinched, resigned and wary, before Cassandra heaved a sigh. "I have been told I have no talent for writing and even less with words, Herald, but someday I will apologize for my distrust and I hope you will accept it."

Ophelia watched her, openly confused. "I… You don't owe me an apology."

"I do," she said simply, pausing for only a moment longer to tilt her head in goodbye to Cullen and Leliana both before leaving the room with Varric on her heels. His mouth opened, but nothing came to his lips, his heart squeezing in his throat.

Cullen watched them leave, helpless, and stared long after the doors were latched behind them. He flinched at the sounds of battle, longing to help and knowing he could do little, the feeling of pain growing as the time dragged on. He did not need to see what was happening to know what each of it meant - this was, after all, not the first time he had been stuck in place, unable to help someone, listening as they died.

It was hard to hear and years of horrific experience hadn't made him numb. Cullen was an expert at watching friends and colleagues fall to magic and sword alike, and that was no easier to watch this time around than it was the first several. Perhap he was cursed, in which case he should send himself away from the Inquisition as soon as he can. Or maybe the world is, and that was why the Maker left them.

He couldn't do anything about it. Dorian weaved magic around them, twisting the air and bringing with it small fissures of pain through Cullen. The ache in his head never ceased, an endless pain following the beat of his heart and the cries of battle outside the doors. His fingers twitched on the pommel of his sword, desperate to help. "Cullen," Leliana said simply, stilling the jerky movement he made towards the door.

Dorian pinned them to their spots on the cobblestone with just his gaze.

The air tingled with power, the amulet coiled around Dorian's fingers. Ophelia stood beside them, unable to do anything more than offer Dorian her mana as support, her eyes lingering on the door where their friends fought for them.

Cullen could do even less. He listened, and he watched, and he tried to remember all the things Leliana had told him. Everything Cullen would need to tell the others, everything that Varric and Cassandra were dying to save.

He wished he was on lyrium, so that the knowledge didn't leak through his fingertips. The pulse of red lyrium was like a second heartbeat echoing in his ears, and it drowned out all else in Redcliffe's throne room.

Maybe on lyrium, he could focus and help.

Maybe on lyrium, he would be out there, fighting with Cassandra and Varric. Far more noble than standing here, trembling head to foot, fingers clenched around a bloodied blade, one he had stolen from a soldier who died fighting, perhaps even one of his own soldiers. Perhaps one of his own men.

It wasn't. He knew it wasn't. It didn't make it any easier to process.

Cullen prayed silently. If stillness wasn't required for Dorian to work, he would be on his knees, praying aloud. Maker, this was Kinloch, right down to the magic swirling around him. Maybe he never escaped at all, maybe that was why the last ten years had been so bloody, so nightmarish.

Outside the throne room, the battle raged on. Dorian's eyes shifted from the amulet to the door, redoubling his effort, sweat beading on his brow. A scream of pain echoed. Varric, he thought, holding his breath.

The doors rattled, held in place only from the board across it. It was a temporary safety when their enemy didn't lack strength.

"He's coming," Leliana said calmly. Resigned. "You will have time as long as I have arrows."

The doors burst open, slamming against the opposite walls. Mages and demons spilled into the room, one after another, and a wise commander would count. Would plan. Cullen couldn't tear his eyes away from Cassandra, her eyes dimming by the second, or from Varric with his stillness, dragged along with their enemies like trophies.

He stepped forward, heart lurching. Ophelia caught his arm, eyes wide and petrified, watching the same sight as him.

Maybe on lyrium, he wouldn't break at the sight of more loss.

"If you move, we're all dead," said Dorian. Ophelia's fingers were tight on his arm, but they shook, and he remembered his promise to Cassandra. _Bring her back._ He would, and he stayed in place.

Cullen refused to look away. He could not help them, but he would not leave them alone in the dark either.

Leliana struck down enemy after enemy, murmuring a prayer too low under her breath for any of them to hear. She didn't pause, but she shifted closer, glancing at them only briefly.

What a sight the three must make. Wreathed in eerie light, magic pulsing around them. Their blood splattered clothes from a future that they could stop, their untarnished faces a contrast to the torture inflicted on her.

Whatever Leliana saw, it gave her strength.

"Make our deaths mean something good," she said loudly as her fingers grasped air instead of fletches.

He saw the blood on the cobblestone. The veil tearing itself to pieces, spewing demons in the process. Friends, gone here, but not gone where they were going.

Leliana fell with little grace and a spray of blood.

Cullen couldn't look away. From his peripheral, he saw Dorian stagger, breathing heavily through the effort to hold the portal open, and Dorian's grip landed on Ophelia's shoulder, holding tight until his fellow mage winced. She yanked his arm over her shoulder - and still Cullen couldn't look away from Leliana. Her promise rang in his ears, one more person he could not fail. One more person he would see when he closed his eyes.

Was this real? Everything ached, but that wasn't so unusual. His eyes stung and no amount of blinking seemed to ease it. Time seemed to move impossibly slow until a hand gripped the mantle attached to his shoulder, yanking him hard. Ophelia, supporting Dorian with one arm, pulling on Cullen with the other, eyes wide. "Cullen!" she mouthed, the roaring in his ears too loud for him to hear.

His eyes strayed back to the death they were leaving behind, but when Ophelia yanked once more, he followed her willingly. The promises to their friends echoed in his ears. This was real, this was real - and it was worse than his nightmares.

Dorian's magic wrapped around them, yanking them through the portal and drawing them back home.

They landed exactly where they left, right down to the look of triumph on the magister's face as their group vanished. Everyone stood in the exact same place, only a few seconds had passed, and the cry of outrage from their soldiers faded when the group reappeared. Gone and back in the blink of an eye - though to Cullen, they had been gone years. Ophelia staggered under Dorian's weight, both of the mages tipping forward, her grip on his mantle tightening to hold herself up. She grit her teeth, lifting her eyes to face the magister.

Cullen hadn't seen anger in her before. Not true anger.

The glimmer of victory in Alexius' eyes faded and the magister slumped to his knees in the throne room, his amulet shattering in his palm. Good, Cullen wanted the pieces burned to ash.

The horror on their people's faces faded. Cullen reached up to uncurl Ophelia's fingers and together they lowered Dorian to the floor, ignoring his grumbled complaints. He didn't want to stand up again, but duty beckoned him and the sooner they finished here, the sooner they could leave and not return. Never again did he want to set eyes on Redcliffe, never again did he want to see blood on the cobblestone, never-

He couldn't move, still kneeling beside Dorian, only looking up at the sharp inhale from the mange standing beside him.

"You're finished, Alexius," Ophelia said, fixing her eyes on the magister. The mark on her palm sparked, angry and volatile, and her fingers twitched, betraying her unease.

Duty, he had to stand up for duty. He had to stand up for Cassandra. _Protect her._ For Leliana. _Make our deaths mean something_. No, that was incomplete, their deaths couldn't mean just anything, it had to mean something good. He didn't know if he was capable of anything good, not anymore, but he could do this. Cullen could support her, no matter how broken and weaponless he was.

Cullen slid up to stand at her side, gathering himself with each step, forcing away the emotions trying to crowd themselves in his throat. "Detain him before he tries something else," he barked. Inquisition soldiers didn't hesitate, and Alexius offered no protest, broken by their return. Not for long, perhaps, and he added to his orders: "Two guards on him at all times until we find out what to do with him." They dragged him to his feet and then from the room, his soldiers saluting and following.

Quiet fell over them. Maker, Cullen had forgotten what it was like without the hum of lyrium in his ears and he let out a breath, shoulders slumping without the need to stay strong in front of his soldiers. He caught sight of Fiona, shrewd eyes flickering between the three of them with something akin to suspicion. His duties weren't done, they had to figure out who else was involved in Alexius' scheme, he could not allow that future to become even a possibility in someone's mind.

"What happened to you all?" Bethany cried out, no longer content to sit in silence in wait for an answer. Her eyes grew aghast as she took a closer look at them. "You look horrid. Do you need healing?"

He didn't understand the question, raising a quizzical brow. An ache in his head was fierce, but no longer did the red lyrium sing in his ears, taunting him with something he could not - and did not - want. No longer did his mind stumble over mere pebbles in the path, desperate for anything to assuage his thirst. Compared to the agony of the dark future, his wounds seemed insignificant.

Explanation came in the soothing touch of healing magic. Cullen flinched at first, and then heaved a tired sigh. "Thank you, and I'm afraid there's little time to explain everything," he admitted, unwilling to cast an eye around the room when it meant informing the people who lingered how aware he was of their presence. What a poor start to an alliance that would be - and his heart sank like a stone, knowing what was to come. Afraid of what was to come.

"It was a lot," Ophelia agreed, rocking on her feet, arms over her abdomen. Her eyes darted around the throne room, not hiding the unease Cullen had forced himself to ignore. "I would like to finish this and go, if we could."

Cullen pushed away his troubles momentarily, looking her over. Fear in her eyes, and an ashen look to her face, and his promises rang again. One of them would be easier for him to keep when he wanted to keep Ophelia Trevelyan safe, too, finding the last few hours in her company had reminded him of something he hadn't felt in a long while, something a bit like understanding and a bit like hope. A thought for another time, though. "Perhaps you and Dorian should go rest," he suggested, wishing he could do the same. Duty required him, and the other promises lingered in his mind. The pain racing through him, abated by Bethany's magic, would have to wait, too.

"Come now, a little magic depletion isn't enough to keep me down," Dorian said, a tired grin on his lips, leaning heavily on Ophelia's shoulder.

"I want to see this through. We must get the mages help, we cannot let that future happen," Ophelia said with a rough swallow.

"Andraste's knickers, what are you talking about?" Bethany demanded, worry growing by the second. Her eyes flickered to Fiona and the remaining Inquisition soldiers, all of whom were pointedly pretending not to listen, and she grimaced knowing no privacy was to be had here. She changed tactics. "We might want to work on discussing the arrangements now then. Commander, your opinion?"

Cullen looked at Fiona. He recalled her anger at the magister. Her want to protect the mages, her aghast at what he had done, and yet it was through her decisions the magister had ended up such a powerful foe in the first place. If it was up to him, he would conscript the mages however was necessary and be done, the least of their repayments for signing the world away to that horrid future, for all the deaths that had been done. For the fear in Ophelia's eyes and the wariness in Dorian's.

But. His eyes lowered from hers.

The thoughts were so like the ones after Kinloch - and he was not that man anymore nor did he want to be him. _Make our deaths mean something good._

He thought of Dorian, working hard to undo a perceived mistake, knowing it was the right thing to do. He thought of Bethany's attempt at forgiveness for all the things he had done, the willingness to help him despite everything. He thought of Ophelia, accused and alone, lost in battle and fighting alike, but still trying to save them all

He thought of himself and his time in Kirkwall when not all among the mages had been enemies, just as not all among the templars had been friends. Kinloch, too, had been that way before- Before it fell. If he had remembered that sooner perhaps Kirkwall would have never fallen.

The Inquisition was better than that. He was better than that.

How many others among the mages would be the same as the ones he called allies? How many others were good people, some in need of second chances like himself and others who had never even received a first one?

He sighed, rubbing between his brows. The fear lingered, but it was an old fear, one of a man who had seen the worst and thought that the only way out of it was more fear, more anger. Cullen knew what to say. "I have spent too long jumping at shadows, and too weary from what the tainted future showed us, I fear I will be little help in the decision. Regardless of how we welcome the mages to the Inquisition, I will work with the Grand Enchanter - if she allows it - for how to best protect everyone. I leave the decision to you," he said to Bethany, stepping back from the two of them, heart beating too fast in his chest, memories threatening to seize him.

A pleased smile crossed Bethany's face. "Ah, very well, Commander. Grand Enchanter, might we-"

The doors to the throne room flung open.

"Oh, what now?" Bethany sighed, the only one to stay still. Cullen stepped in front of the mages with narrowed eyes, ignoring his lack of weapons and the slight trembling in his legs, mind racing and shaking all at once. Dorian staggered off Ophelia's shoulder to stand beside him, as if expecting Alexius to burst through the doors just as Cullen did. Ophelia took Cullen's other side with nervous steps, mana shooting up in preparation for barriers.

Bethany watched them, baffled and concerned, exchanging a look with Fiona.

It wasn't Alexius returning. It wasn't the Elder One. It wasn't demons and foes. It wasn't their friends coming to die.

The three let out a collective breath. Cullen's vision blurred around the edges, and he stepped back, bumping into Ophelia's soldier. She jolted, magic dissipating, and then took his elbow, leading him a little bit away.

Bethany and Fiona stepped over to meet Queen Anora's ire.

She let go of him when they were a short distance away. "Sorry, are you alright?" Ophelia whispered while the others crowded closer to Bethany, eager to take part in the discussion.

Cullen should listen, too, he should know, and yet the lack of eyes on him for a moment, the lack of needing to think for just a second, brought a wave of relief to him. His words with Bethany were the extent of his duty for now, there would be time later for the rest, time in which he would have to figure out how to integrate the mages with his troops without stepping on too many toes. He closed his eyes, but Cullen could see Redcliffe for what it could be and he opened them with a flinch.

Her question hit him with delay. He shook his head, but it was neither confirmation nor denial. "You were not injured, Lady Trevelyan?"

She bit her lip. "Nothing that rest won't heal."

Cullen fixed her with a sharp look. She laughed quietly, looking down to muffle it. "I am being honest which is more than I can say for you since you're avoiding it. Maker, I wish I knew healing magic," she grumbled, some of it to herself he assumed. She reached for his arm and then stopped, hand falling to her side. "Apologies. I suppose I would be no help even if I did see."

Showing his wounds was the last thing he wanted to do, not when it seemed a weakness with memories clinging so close he could almost see them out of the corner of his eyes. She fidgeted with her fingers, and the crease in her brows told him this was less about his wounds than she said. The look on her face was a familiar sort of discomfort. Like she, too, was seeing Redcliffe in it's two forms: the now and what could be.

The discussion from others grew heated and the prickling in his head worsened. He couldn't walk over to them, another heated voice in the madness, and he found he didn't want to join them, even as the thought let a feeling of uselessness pry at him.

Ophelia's worried gaze was something he could help.

Cullen loosened his braces, holding them in one hand and holding his arm out to her. Startled, but pleased at the distraction, she looked at his arm and grimaced. "Serrah Bethany healed what she could. When we have a moment, I will need to have it examined for sprains," he said, wincing at the slight touch of her fingers on the dark bruises marking his arm. The wound from his broken sword was a dark gash near his elbow, the scar looking only a week or two old rather than a few hours, but that was perhaps the nicest of his wounds. Little of his flesh was unmarred from their time in the future.

"This looks terrible and yet you still fought," she murmured. Her voice was so quiet, he strained to hear it, and she fell quiet, looking at his arm but not, lost in her own swirling thoughts. Cullen was unsure of how to help her when he couldn't figure out which part of this awful day was eating at her or if she was like him and everything was. "How?"

"How?" He repeated, confused.

"How did you keep fighting? With this, with… with everything?"

There it was, the question he hoped she wasn't going to ask. It was the one every soldier asked themselves after a battle like this, and one that Cullen himself knew little on how to answer. He didn't know if it was courage, or bravado. He didn't know if it was strength, or fear. He didn't know what compelled him to keep walking when every step was agony, but then he was never good with words and feelings, let alone describing them.

"I will not give you false words, it's like our first talk in Haven. Sometimes you can only do the next right thing," he said, trying to find the words. He realized only then how tired he was and how much he longed to sleep for a little while without demons hanging over his shoulder or worries clouding his vision, he felt as if he could catch up on tens year worth of missing sleep right that moment. "It's only failure if I stop trying, they are only truly gone if I give up. I keep fighting because I must go - how does the saying go - I must go upwards and onwards- No, wait, I fear that is the wrong order."

Cullen paused, scrambling, head still swimming, his hand attempting to move to the back of his neck until he recalled her holding his arm. He stilled, exhaling loudly, annoyed at himself. Leliana's words lingered, but he did not think he could say them aloud, even if they would explain so much more than his own attempts.

"I understand," she said, lips twitching with an attempt at humor. He felt an answer smiling cross his lips, and Cullen counted it as a victory that her eyes were a fraction lighter than before. _Make our deaths mean something good_. Silently, he bowed his head, and he promised to see such words through to their end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kind comments! It means so much to me to see people are enjoying this story (and that they like Ophelia as much as I do) and I hope you continue to like it as we continue! I also hope you forgive me for dragging Cullen through some pretty dark times in this future, this chapter was particularly difficult to write. Cullen is a fascinating character and a man who seems like the embodiment of an oxymoron so I had a lot of fun delving into the things that made him tick in this chapter, and I hope I helped explain a decent bit of his mindset. This story is as much about Cullen as it is Ophelia after all. 
> 
> On a sidenote and unrelated to this: oxymoron sounds like the qunari version of himbo except perhaps more offensive to use.


	8. Red Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia returns to Haven and the aftermath of the dark future hits hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind responses to the last chapter! It was an intense one to write and I wasn't sure on the reception it would get so I'm thrilled that people enjoyed it. ♥ I always have so many things to say in these notes, but when it comes time to writing them, I never recall what I want to share with everyone. 
> 
> Early chapter this week since I'll be out of my house all of tomorrow to visit family and frankly visiting them always makes me feel meh afterwards so I wanted to get this out sooner rather than later. I also left a rather obvious The Princess Bride reference, I'm sure you'll figure out which one! Have a great day everyone!

Forgetting about the things Ophelia saw in the future was easier said than done. No amount of resting chased it from her mind, and no amount of unrelated talking made her think of something different. She would have found it easier to cope if others showed any strain, but one glance at Cullen and Dorian told her neither were worse for wear after this journey. Cullen was grouchier than normal, snapping at what were otherwise mild disagreements, but a short conversation with Bethany later had him returning to normal. Dorian took it easiest, sleeping through the first night and waking up the next morning cheerful as a daisy.

She had no such luxury. Normalcy seemed a far away thing after what they witnessed, and no matter how many steps they took away from Redcliffe, she could still see the future. It seeped into the lush grass and waving trees, bringing shadows where none previously existed.

Halfway through their journey the second day away from Redcliffe, the enormity of what they had witnessed hit her with all the gentleness of a shield to the skull. She excused herself, half tumbling off her horse, and strode off to hyperventilate in a bush for a few minutes under the guise of seeing royal elfroot. No one seemed to believe this excuse and the concern on their faces prompted her to swallow back any other surge of feelings.

At night, she shared a tent with Bethany. The two mages were tiny enough to curl into balls in their respective corners and wake without once touching. Ophelia enjoyed it on the way to Redcliffe, preferring Bethany who didn't move in her sleep at all to Hawke and Cassandra who seemed to alternate pummelling each other mid-dream. It was less enjoyable on the way back to Haven when nightmares plagued her dreams, waking her hour after hour, until she was half asleep on her horse the rest of the ride.

She slept fitfully during Bethany's watch and in short dozes for the rest of the march, almost wishing for the comfort of the other mages. It had been wiser to hurry and make arrangements for the mages rather than travel with the bulk of them, and it was only their tiny group. Useless in the form of distractions, though she had listened to Varric's stories with far more attention than usual.

Once, the sight of Haven in the distance filled her with dread, but Ophelia could have wept at the sight of it. They led their horses up to the stables with unspoken relief. She dismounted, arms bundled tightly around herself as she shivered in the mountain air. She rubbed her horse's nose, waiting for the stableboy to take the reins.

Bethany cleared her throat. Ophelia dragged her gaze from the horse to see Bethany standing there, looking between Dorian, Cullen, and Ophelia with worry. "We should talk," she said quietly, but with a firmness that must have been a family trait. "I know we didn't discuss it on the road, but whatever you saw, I don't want to leave it unspoken. The alliance is already a sore topic without any… perceived animosities."

Her gaze didn't flicker to Cullen, but privately Ophelia thought that's where her thoughts strayed. A tad rude given Cullen hadn't voiced a single disagreement to Bethany's decision, though his lack of verbal agreement was just as damning. She hadn't played the game in a long time, true, but she remembered pieces it enough.

Nonetheless, the idea of talking about the future and laying out the grisly facts of it didn't sound appealing. It wasn't a problem they could dissect piece by piece for answers, and she didn't relish exposing what felt like a physical wound. "Now?" Ophelia asked feebly, hunching her shoulders. "I thought we would need to wait for the Inquisitor."

"We have too much to do when Hawke returns as is," Cullen agreed, rubbing his brow wearily. He and Dorian didn't look concerned at the idea of discussing it. From the look on Dorian's face, he was miffed at the lack of time to bathe off the grime of travel before duty required him. "I wrote a great deal down to remember, but there are things Leliana and Josephine need to know without any further delay. Join us."

Who? Oh. His gaze went to Dorian and Ophelia as if sensing their reluctance. She considered denying it, relieved for the opportunity to escape he unwittingly offered, but their eyes caught and held. It lasted only a moment, but the tired look in his eyes reminded her of those few minutes after they returned from the future: unnerved, worried, but determined nonetheless. "Both of you, your perspectives are necessary to fill in the spaces my memory lapsed," he continued.

"Quite a charming invitation. I'd quite like time to recuperate, but I suppose I can spare a few moments to ensure nothing we saw there comes to pass," Dorian said.

"I… Very well, but I will leave you to tell the Inquisitor when she returns. I don't want to be present when she hears what she has missed," she said with a weak attempt at levity. Tilda Hawke was the only woman she knew who was genuinely annoyed to miss out on strange adventures.

His lips quirked, some of the weariness leaking from his eyes. "I believe that can be arranged."

"I'll fetch the others," Bethany said, relieved.

Cullen faltered, and Bethany stilled. For a moment, he teetered, as though he had something to say but was unsure of how to voice it. He shook his head, centering himself, fighting off whatever doubts plagued his head. "Perhaps it's best we tell you the story first, I do not know how well they will take it. This isn't pleasant," he warned.

"Who exactly is joining us? I thought the Inquisitor and Cassandra were still in Therinfal Redoubt," Ophelia said, concerned. Leliana and Josephine were expected, and Cullen had mentioned telling them specifically, so who else? Had someone else risen to prominence in the Inquisition while they were away?

"My sister has loyal friends," Bethany said with a shrug. "Did she not tell you about them?"

"Um, no," she muttered in reply, uncomfortable, trying to recall what Hawke had told her when she prompted Ophelia to write all the correspondence. Nothing about friends, nothing about more people for Ophelia to stand awkwardly around, knowing they were watching her and unable to protest it. "I guess not, but we didn't talk much. I mostly listened to her and Varric."

Bethany grinned. "If you've spoken or listened to Varric, he's mentioned them. Not by name, it's not really his style. Commander, if you think that's best, we can leave it to Tilda to tell them when she returns, but I would still like to be present."

"Of course," he said, inclined his head. Together, the group made their way to the war room, Ophelia following them reluctantly.

Dorian slowed to walk beside her, mustache twitching as he smiled at her. "Chin up, this can't be any worse than living it."

…

…

He was wrong, it was worse than living it. Ophelia hadn't realized how many things she had missed about the future until Cullen and Dorian were explaining their portions of the story, her own presence superfluous next to their perfect memory. Having their words point out the details she missed - like the skeletons along the floor wearing armor from not just one army, but several. Or the red lyrium growing from some people's very skin. Or... the list went - only added to Ophelia's already nightmare filled sleep.

Oftentimes she found the confines of the Chantry to be peaceful, akin to the home she had made in the circle for the last ten years. Tonight, she hated it, her sleep filled with a sensation of burning, of magic flying past her cheeks and leaving wounds, of the look on the magister's face when Felix died in the future, identical to the look of defeat on his face when they crumpled his plans in the present. Her blankets were too warm, tangled around her legs, but the idea of parting from the childish form of protection meant she could do little more than suffer.

The sight of the unmarred cobblestones and the bright blue sky had done much to alleviate her concerns after the war meeting, sure, but the look on his face haunted her, proof beyond measure that this future wasn't just real, it was a distinct possibility.

It's not going to happen, she reminded herself. She was here.

She dreamed of the breach spreading, leaving the sky a bright green haze. Her mark hadn't hurt in the future, not really, but the prickling awareness of it had been in the back of her mind and in her dreams, it was pinching and tugging, like a beast beckoning. When she closed her eyes, Ophelia imagined it spreading across her palm and up her arm. When she slept, she imagined it engulfing the sky, her and the breach becoming one.

Running seemed the best solution, and she screwed her eyes shut tighter.

Linnea was there, malice on her face. Ophelia was too slow, too careless, and the magic killed Cullen, and then her, and then the world was doomed-

Ophelia shot awake for the third time in so many hours, heart rattling in her chest, feeling worse than ever. Of all the possibilities in her dreams, Linnea's seeking revenge seemed the most likely. She was the only one to strike out at Grand Enchanter Fiona and Bethany alike for their alliance and the Inquisition had little choice but to take her prisoner, too. The mage sat in the Chantry dungeons with Alexius - the very place Ophelia had first woken up when the world had fallen apart again - awaiting judgment from Hawke. She couldn't sleep, as though their anger was reaching her through the stones.

A guard lingered outside her room. The creaking of their armor as they shifted on their feet once brought comfort too, but now Ophelia found the scrape of boots on stone grating and maddening. She stood up, far too tired to slip into regular clothes or arrange her hair into a plait, and she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, leaving the confines of the chantry. Her guard followed her, and it took her a moment to spot Dara's familiar face beneath his helmet. She sent him a small smile.

He didn't smile back, but he waved, hand moving to cover his mouth as a jaw-cracking yawn escaped him. "Go back to your room, Trevelyan," he said, and she stiffened, teetering, head shaking. Dara heaved a sigh, following her out of the Chantry. The snow cracked under their feet, the only noise in an otherwise silent Haven.

"I can't sleep," she said simply.

"Up for a late night walk then?" he asked, skeptically.

She didn't respond until they were away from the line of tents and cabins. As they neared the gate, she lifted the bottom of her blanket, unwilling to drag it through the mud.

"I was thinking I might find a tree and nap there," she said, only half serious. It wasn't an ideal solution, but she had done so those few weeks wandering the Hinterlands on her own and she needed something other than stuffy stone walls with shifting shadows whenever she turned her head.

His steps faltered and then recovered. "You are not sleeping in a tree, Trevelyan." It was the first display of emotion, and the annoyance had her shoulders hunching with wariness. He kept his distance, several feet away, and she had forgotten this peculiar quirk of his to follow the rules to their absolute letter.

Ophelia frowned. "Why not?"

"I hardly want to be out in the snow watching you sleep."

"What if I pick the one by the fire? You would be warmer than the Chantry," she suggested. Their steps came to a stop at the gate and another soldier watched them with annoyance, hovering as they waited for instructions or explanations.

"No," he said, stubborn. Her face fellow and he rolled his eyes, continuing on somewhat gruffly. "We could take a walk, the fresh air will help you, but you can't run away."

She stiffened. In her head, she had considered it, but to have someone so brazenly accuse her of fleeing when she had promised to stay… "Run away?" Ophelia repeated, offended.

"You can't run from your dreams, Trevelyan. You have to face them," he said, shaking his head.

"My dreams aren't bothering me."

"And my mother's a nug. You have an open face, and I'm mighty good at reading people. It's why I'm one of the people they assigned to you otherwise you might be stuck with Lysette or Tanner. Poor conversationalists, and oblivious as a tortoise," he said with a careless shrug of his shoulders. The soldier nearby huffed, and Dara grinned, a display of amusement he hadn't ever shown around her. "Just making conversation, Tanner."

"Better go quick, the Commander has the troops waking before dawn for training," the man named Tanner said, fiddling with the string on his bow, only opening the door when Dara tilted his head.

It was colder outside the gates without the cabins to block the chill, but it was worth the feeling of ice in her lungs. No longer did it seem unbearably hot, no longer did it feel as though the walls were closing in on her. Just her, and the mountain air. She eyed the tents nearby and picked a route beyond the blacksmith, refusing to wake anyone else for her bad dreams.

Dara didn't speak. Not when their quick walk became five minutes, nor when it became ten, reverting back to the uncomfortably quiet guard he always was. She expected no less, nor did she need someone to talk with her when she had done quite well on her own. No, a few minutes of quiet would do the trick of solving her problems.

Yet the silence was worse. If it weren't for Dara's eyes on her back, she would feel alone, and she cursed herself for the way a templar watching her made her feel like she was back in the circle. Hated it more because it brought a strange comfort, just as her room in the Chantry did. Someday, Ophelia would come to terms with her time in the circle, and she would be able to think of it without a weird longing. It hadn't brought her anything good - indeed, it had taken away the things that had mattered one after another, but life outside the circle was no better. She had been imprisoned three times now, and nearly killed twice as many just walking around. Was it wrong to wish for the circles to return during the times it was good? When she and the others were studying some obscure magic, when they were exchanging stories about their youths, when her magic didn't make her feel other?

Did those good times even really exist? Linnea was proof beyond measure that no one in the circle was what she thought.

Maker, she just wanted to go home where the breach was a threat, but one to which she could offer no assistance. Back to a time when the future was a blank slate of possibility rather than the darkness to come. Where she was safe, warm, and loved.

Where was home though? Not the Trevelyan's who had sent her away without a backwards glance. Not in the circle which didn't exist. Once, it had been in Fabian's arms, though that feeling severed when they had stolen the babe from her arms. Not there, and she didn't know if it was here either. The future scared her, but the thing that scared her most was how much wiser it would be to leave.

A few well-placed spells and she could flee into the wilderness as she did before. The only thing stopping her was… Was what? She had left once before, as much to save her skin as to rest her eyes on the child long gone, a last request of the Maker in what felt like her final hours.

She stayed to keep their future safe, though now it seemed silly to imagine she had any sort of ability to help beyond the mark on her hand. Close the breach, she could do that, but once that was over, once that was done, her future became uncertain. The only possibilities was her own fade to white on the gallows, or a future too dark for them to stop.

It was only when the sky changed from black to a dark ochre, the sun threatening to rise over the next ridge, that Dara pointedly cleared his throat.

"We should return," she said quietly, feeling no more rested or relaxed than she had when they left.

They walked back, still silent, her thoughts still racing. Already she could hear the distant sounds of training, and the piercing call of orders.

All at once, she wanted Cassandra's brusque tone, or Hawke's loud laughter, or Varric's bold stories, or Cullen's reassurement, something other than the silence hovering over her head.

Thoughts of silence faded at the touch on her shoulder. Dara frowned at something in the distance as the sun bathed the valley in reds and oranges. She followed his gaze, squinting, unable to see beyond the glare, but spotting only the regular patrol of Inquisition soldiers around the lake, one of them squinting back in confusion, holding a stick in their hands.

Dara shoved her forward with a swear. No, not confusion, she realized belatedly. Too late did she notice the notched bow. Too late did her manage surge to her fingers in an attempt to shield her. Too late did Dara push her out of the way. The arrow struck her shoulder, tearing through the thin blanket and her even thinner night clothes, a pained shriek freezing in her throat.

The figure notched another one then hesitated. Her knees crumpled, snow flurrying around her, vision going white around the edges. Dara stepped in front of her, and she blinked rapidly, trying to keep him in focus, wincing as he bellowed, "Tanner, follow them!"

He moved as though to follow and she reached out helplessly, gasping. "No, no" she stuttered, eyes widening, fear bypassing pain.

With a deep breath, she risked a glance down. The arrow stuck out of the flesh in her right shoulder, blood soaking her clothes and the blanket. Droplets fell, staining the snow red while she watched, mesmerized.

Dara gave two, sharp piercing whistles. Her ears rang from the noise as it echoed endless in her head. No, it wasn't ricocheting off the heavens, it was a steady chain of responses from the others.

Her vision spun. "Knight-Corporal," she mumbled. Her blinks were heavy, her army slowly growing numb. Ophelia slumped forward, body tucking inwards, unable to support her weight any longer.

A hand grasped her, flinging her upright ungently. She shot awake with a pained shriek, flinging the hand away from her. Footsteps were sprinting down the path towards them, and she couldn't tell whether they were friend or foe until Dara stepped into her vision, annoyed, stilling her attempts to fling herself away with a tight grip.

"Stop moving! You're making it worse than it is," he ordered, eyes shooting around, taking in the people nearing them. She moved as though to reach for the arrow, her one thought being to rip it out, but he slapped her hand away ungently. "Pressure. Hold this." Her free hand was guided to the blanket bunched around her wound, holding tight to halt the flowing blood.

Don't pass out. Don't look. Ophelia had no idea which of them was part of it. Hadn't Dara held her still? Had he- Sickness swirled in her stomach.

Two soldiers and two scouts careened up the path. "Fetch the Commander and Sister Nightingale," Dara said sharply. "Get a healer. Find Tanner."

The four people watched, unmoving, and she wondered if they were among the ones who wished her dead. If relief and hope for her death were halting their steps. Tears pricked at her eyes once more, and she breathed shakily, trying to not succumb to the desperate call of sleep. She adjusted her grip on the wound, the jolts of pain keeping her awake.

Dara pressed on her hands again, holding them firmly in place, shooting the others an exasperated look before they sprang into action. Another set of hurried footsteps reached them and a man appeared, breathless and red-faced, crouching beside Dara. Tanner, she recalled, dimly, staring at the blood coating her fingers and Dara's gauntlet, dread and nausea warring in her stomach.

Tanner didn't speak until the soldiers were gone.

"No sign of them. Knew the land well, disappeared across the lake and into a blind spot," he said, catching his breath, annoyance clear in his voice. His accent was Starkhaven, she could hear it in the roll of his words. "Should send someone looking still, someone who can track better than me. Mattrin, maybe, he's awake, isn't he?" His eyes shot to hers. "Alright, lass?"

She couldn't look away from the arrow, but she had the ability to give a shaky nod.

"You'll need stitches when we remove this, Trevelyan, but it didn't go all the way through," Dara said, free hand pressing against her shoulder where the arrow should, rightfully, have pierced straight through. It didn't make her feel any better. She shook her head slowly.

Stay calm, _stay calm_. Don't pass out, don't get sick, be strong. She blinked slowly, the pain arriving with a vengeance, worse than her fall off the cliff in the Hinterlands, and she stiffened, swallowing the pain and the tears back in one breath.

Be strong.

She had thought her time in the Hinterlands, or perhaps the dark future, would have rid her of the sickness that hit her whenever she saw blood, but it hadn't.

"Report! What happened?" a familiar voice barked, boots crunching through the snow. The two scouts saluted. She could have cried with relief at Cullen's appearance, and her gaze shot to him, shoulders sagging.

The pain hit again, stronger, and she realized her fingers, slick with blood, had slipped from the blanket. Dara was there, taking over for her. She let out a shaky breath, trying to explain. _Someone shot me,_ and yet her words slurred, unrecognizable.

Leliana slid into view, looking unruffled, as if they hadn't just fetched her from bed and sent her to the edges of the Inquisition camp at dawn without a word. Her appearance prompted Dara to take over for Ophelia's explanation.

"One attacker. Came from the east, shot an arrow. I heard them fumble with the next one, they were an amateur shot," Dara recanted.

Ophelia shot him a look, breathing a little heavier. Was it just her, or was his voice quite low?

"Didn't strike anything important. You're still awake, too, I'm impressed," he replied with a shrug.

"What were you doing out here?" Cullen demanded.

"And the rear guard?" Leliana added, studying them intently.

"Trouble sleeping," Dara replied. She wished they would talk slower, she couldn't keep up.

Tanner lifted his head, answering the second question. "Me, ma'am, they were wearing Inquisition armor." Ophelia tried to mumble her question, but it was gibberish, though it must have shone on her face because he answered. "Two guards, lass, for situations like this. Don't usually have assassins in our uniforms, we aren't… Notable enough for it."

Leliana's tone was icy. It struck Ophelia as a reminder that the woman was only a year away from becoming the same woman who slit someone's throat without hesitation. "A mistake we'll be rectifying. Who else was on duty tonight?"

"Perhaps we should address her wounds more while we speak," Cullen cut in, his eyes not straying from her face. "Where is the healer?"

"Can we not remove the arrow here so she can heal herself?" Tanner asked, confused. 

"No healing magic," Ophelia mumbled, still gibberish.

Cullen replied on her behalf: "Lady Trevelyan doesn't specialize in healing magic. I wouldn't recommend she test the theory out now. Tanner, Dara, go with Sister Nightingale, tell her everything you can, I'll wait for someone to come here."

He traded places with Tanner, crouching beside her in the snow. Dara didn't move until Cullen's hands replaced his own over the wound, and their footsteps shuffled away. "Lady Trevelyan?" he asked quietly. Her eyes lifted to his, trying to keep the sickness at bay, trying to keep her eyes open, refusing to sleep when enemies were so close.

No, Cullen was here. She trusted him, he wouldn't let anyone hurt her, he had said so, hadn't he? Her lips trembled, unable to hide the fear any longer. One of his hands strayed from her shoulder, almost absently pushing the hair away from her face. Safety, that's what he was. Her tenuous grasp on wakefulness broke.

Ophelia only had a moment to register his widening eyes and the way his grip shifted to support her, fresh spurts of pain spreading through her. Black spots flashed through her vision. Without a word, her head landed on the fur mantle around his neck.

…

…

Her wound was mostly healed before the day ended, but they kept her confined in the Chantry for another three days before she was allowed to roam once more. For her safety, Ophelia knew, but it didn't make it any less relieving to leave it.

Her nightmares were worse than ever, the dark future mixing with the thwack of the arrow as it struck her, and she slept impossibly less. The paleness of her face and the shadows under her eyes only prompted further concern and further bedrest. Her time was spent either attempting to sleep, or under Josephine's watchful eyes, before they deemed her recovered enough to leave the stone building a full week after her return from the future.

The outside air was calming for only a moment before the bustle of the Inquisition froze her in her tracks on the stoop of the Chantry. It was hard not to turn and flee inside, away from the people wandering to and from with their daily duties, her mind conjuring imaginary weapons and assassins whenever someone happened to move a little strangely. Ophelia hesitated, shoulders hunching, and the scar on her shoulder as a reminder.

Was her assassin here, lurking near the requisitions tables? Were they disguised as a sister this time, all the easier to catch her during confinement? Did they hide among the mages who arrived in Haven in groups of two or three, the main bulk of them set to arrive later this evening?

It could be any of those considering the assassin was still loose. Any semblance of a trail was long gone as a storm passed through the valley. When it passed, their scouts had come back with little good news.

She saw little of Cullen and Leliana the entire week. Both were caught up in investigating, unwilling to tip anyone's hands by asking overt questions, and then the impending arrival of the mages alongside whomever the Inquisitor could fetch during her quest meant scrambling for supplies.

Instead, she jumped between the company of Hawke's friends and the remaining members of the inner circle. The idea of someone in Inquisition uniform trying to murder Ophelia left the inner circle startled to her confusion. It wasn't like anyone had made it a secret that Ophelia's presence here was a limited time offer, or that she was their prisoner more so than their ally. The official stance on her hadn't changed, no matter what they told themselves.

"Lady Trevelyan?" Cullen asked, shaking her from her thoughts.

"I… apologies," she said, shoulders hunching together. She didn't move. Her limbs were frozen, unable to flee back into the stone building where her nightmares hungered for more, nor move forward into the sunlight and the people, where an assassin mostly certainly waited. Neither place seemed safe anymore, and she was struck for the second time in a week with a longing for home.

Where was home, if not the Circle, if not the Chantry, if not the Trevelyan's, if not the Inquisition?

Concern leaked into Cullen's eyes and her face flushed with shame. "I can't move," she murmured, cold and fear mixing into one harsh shiver, eyes falling to the ground. Ophelia didn't want platitudes, or understanding, she wanted to move.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked.

She frowned. "I can't…"

He interrupted, somewhat apologetically. "Don't think about why you can't go there. Where do you want to go?"

Ophelia thought quickly. Somewhere without people, but… She shivered again, thinking of the assassin who came from nowhere. "I want to watch the soldiers train," she decided, nodding her head, because she was safe among them. It didn't strike her as strange to find comfort in their presence when a few weeks ago she feared their blades, but now she can only take comfort in their shields, in their nearness.

In the fact that Cullen stood with them, too, someone she trusted beyond the rest. She hadn't apologized for bleeding on him, or for the way he helped her in the future, and she attempted to do so only to falter.

If this surprised Cullen, he didn't show it, only nodding his head. "One step at a time then," he said, holding out his hand for her. She studied it, taking in the long digits and the strength she recalled in them, and it was only when she didn't move that he echoed her words from their time in the dark future. "Let me help?"

"I don't have a shield for you to hold."

Cullen smiled, and it surprised her that he remembered it at all. They hadn't spoken about the future, not since they told Bethany, Leliana, and Josephine everything they had experienced in the quiet, cramped war room. She had admired his ability to hold it away when she was quite certain she was drowning in the memories. "Next time, I'll carry your shield, but in the meantime, let me do this."

Still, Ophelia hesitated, looking over her shoulders. "Don't you have duties? I don't wish to interrupt them."

"Nothing that can't wait," he assured. When she still didn't take his hand, she could see the uncertainty in his gaze, the way his hand slowly lowered, moving absently towards the back of his neck.

She caught it before he could finish. "Please, then."

His grip was strong and solid around her own, squeezing gently and pulling just as carefully, guiding her down the last few steps. No one paid them any attention, for which she was grateful as unwilling heat crept up her cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and relief at the safety his presence promised her.

It was only when her feet were firmly on the ground and the shadows of the Chantry slid over them that she found her heartbeat normal once more. The sounds of the Inquisition washed over her, but while the tension stayed in her shoulders and the urge to look around warily lingered, she no longer felt rooted in place. "Thank you," she murmured, relinquishing her grip on his fingers.

He walked away, but… not towards the Chantry as she thought. His head tilted back towards her, the sun glinting off his golden hair, his brow arched in question. "Coming? If you wish to watch them train, we should go, they are almost done with their afternoon drills," he said.

She caught up to him and they walked out of the gates. The fear returned with each step, shoulders bunch and her eyes wide.

The hand on her back made her flinch. Cullen let his hand drop, but his gaze was steady on hers. "Breathe," he ordered, firm, unyielding, something she latched onto as she let out a shaky breath. "This isn't your first injury." Not quite a question, though the curiosity in his face asked a different one: why was she afraid now?

"The Hinterlands is a dangerous place, but… I did not think something like this could happen here. I mean… I don't know why someone would want me to die before we closed the breach," she answered, shakily, arms crossing over her stomach, fingers tapping on her elbow as they rested there. "I thought I had time before I had to worry. I thought… I thought I was safe for a little while."

"You are safe here still, though I know that's a poor promise in light of everything." He looked pained. "When you are afraid, or angry, you don't always think clearly. From their attempt, I would say whoever it was did not think it through."

She couldn't respond to the first part, unable to believe it yet, no matter how earnest he was. "What do you mean?"

"They had no idea you would be out at that hour, they found the nearest weapon. One of my soldiers reported their equipment was missing - this was an opportunity, not a set plan. It does not speak to someone who was plotting something, though I can't promise they aren't doing so now," he explained.

The thought didn't ease her much, though their arrival at the training grounds proved a helpful distraction. Dara was there, helping guide a novice rogue through the correct movements, and she could see Tanner there, too, helping adjust someone's grip on their bow with exasperation. Even Mattrin and Lysette from the Ostwick Circle were assisting, though unlike the first two they did not spare her a nod in greeting, the former eyeing her with annoyance. 

Familiarity, that's what they promised, no more how little some liked her. 

"Dara mentioned dreams," Cullen ventured, hesitantly.

She had forgotten - as one would - her reasons for leaving the gate that morning, or mostly she had forgotten Dara blurting out the reasons for everyone to hear. Narrowing her eyes, she kicked the slush of ice at her feet. "I should have just tried to sleep through the nightmares instead of venturing out like a child afraid of the dark," she said quietly, angry for the lack of peace. Angry for the dark future haunting her. "I should have been stronger. It doesn't matter what I saw, it didn't really happen. Those dreams aren't real."

"What you saw - what we saw - it isn't something you can simply forget. I don't recommend walking around in the dark too far from camp, but what you did wasn't wrong, and I would have done the same."

"Would you? You don't look like you are suffering at all, like it was all just a… just a dream that went away the moment we came back," she argued, turning away, arms tightening around herself, cursing the way tears pricked in her eyes. She wished she was fierce, like Cassandra and Hawke, or strong like Cullen and Fabian, neither of whom would be sitting here, afraid.

There was no fire in his voice, just pain and grim understanding. "The things we saw are things I've seen before. Things I've lived through before. I know how to keep them from eating me - or at least I know how to try," he supplied, the ending weaker than the beginning.

The wavering confidence made her pause.

Ophelia faced him slowly. The dark future threatened to buckle her - and he had lived through something like it enough to hold his nightmares at bay. She couldn't fathom it. "Was it… Kirkwall?" Did the stories do it justice?

Cullen shook his head. "Before," he said, sighing, eyes growing distant. She waited for more, but he changed the subject. "The nightmares don't get easy, but you can't run from them either. Believe me when I say I've tried. You have to find something to hold onto when they reach for you."

Home, she thought. It was the thing holding her together now, even if the concept of it was so loose she didn't know what to hang it on. "What is it for you?"

She thought, for a second, that he would need to think about it, that he struggled with an answer like she did, but he didn't. Cullen answered without hesitation, a smile on his lips that was half-proud and half-tired. It struck her that while he didn't show signs of his time in the future, she could still see the strain of it in his eyes. They were always more expressive than the rest of him. They shined with warmth now, and it made her feel lighter.

"The Inquisition. There's so much we can do that others can't, so much that our soldiers can be part of, and I try to remember that whatever I might see in my dreams, I am striving for something better. I don't want those things to happen again, and this is the best way to prevent it."

"I... I like that, but I don't know if it'll work for me." What did she want?

"My reasons are mine, it's alright if they don't fit you. You'll have to figure out what part scares you the most, and how you can lessen its hold on you," he said seriously.

"I want to go home," she mumbled, because that was the only thing roaming through her head. His lips parted, a question brewing in his eyes, but Ophelia shook her head and continued on. "I don't know where home is anymore. It scares me that I have nothing to fight for, and I keep thinking…" She licked her lips, ashamed. "I keep wondering whether I'll leave when the breach is closed. I mean, I've been thinking I'd die, but now, you guys know it isn't me, we know it's the Elder One."

"Do you want to die?"

Her answer flared to life, shocking her with its intensity after what felt like a week of numbness. "No!"

"Can you help us?"

"I… I don't know. I can't fight," she said, grimacing. "I don't know how to help."

Cullen lifted a hand, gesturing to the soldiers training near them. "Nor can they, but everyone starts somewhere. You have come farther since we first met you, but you aren't required in the field short of closing the rifts, we could find you something to do. If you wanted to stay after we close the breach then it would be up to you. Or if you want to leave, return to your family, then you can."

She thought for a moment, but her brain was scrambling, the lack of sleep leaving her little room to properly think. "I don't know where home is anymore," she repeated, quietly. "But… if that future happens, I'll never find it, will I? We won't let the future happen here. I could help stop it with you?" She paused, clarifying with a heat to her cheeks she didn't quite understand. "With everyone."

He swallowed, lips parting, and then nodded, continuing on without commenting on her faux paus. "I cannot speak for Hawke, but she has not voiced any reasons or plans to send you away in her missives when we speak of the future of the Inquisition."

The idea of Hawke derailed her. "Is she coming back soon? I've only heard rumors of what happened with the templars." She didn't count the mages as totally reliable sources, she can still recall the look on Bethany's face as she fielded argumentative letters with the Grand Enchanter once news of Hawke's templars reached them.

He sighed. "She should be back tomorrow evening, we will hopefully have the mages settled by then and then we can begin preparations to march on the breach. It seems as though this Elder One toyed with the templars, too," he said, a look of distaste on his face. "Whoever they are, their reach is far and stronger than we thought. I had hoped a year of foresight would give us an edge, but I fear we are still playing catch up."

"Is it hopeless?"

Cullen looked at her. It struck her how different they were in height, nearly an entire head of difference. "No, certainly not. Remember, this future happened because you weren't there to help us close the breach and we did not know to focus on a different threat. Now we have both you and knowledge to aid us, I believe we will succeed."

"Okay," she murmured, letting out a shallow breath, the claws of her nightmares dislodging bit by bit. Tears pricked in her eyes and against her wishes, the last week of activity struck her in the chest like a second arrow, the tears sliding down her cheeks.

Cullen's expression grew panicked. "Lady Trevelyan?"

"I'm sorry," she said, mopping at her eyes with her sleeve. "It was… I've never seen anything like that future, and I've never been nearly assassinated before, and Maker, I'm so tired."

He offered her a handkerchief and she thanked him with a watery smile. "You should try to sleep."

Ophelia imagined the stones and shivered. "No, no, I can't go back in there for a while, I keep seeing Redcliffe whenever I'm inside."

"Ah, I'm sorry, I didn't think about that," he said with a dawning realization. Speculative, he cast a look around, settling on one of the tents nearby, before returning to her. His cheeks were a little pink, and his eyes were averted, and she watched him, tears silenced, baffled and a little amused at the bashful look on his face. "Can you sleep through this noise?"

"The Elder One himself could fall out of the breach and land on our front step and I would not wake through it," she said after a moment of thought.

"You can sleep in my tent, if you wish." Surprise shot through her, clear on her face if his scramble to continue speaking meant anything. "My duties mean I'll be out here until late this evening, and you would be well-protected here. No one needs to know you're in there and no stones to remind you of Redcliffe. If that is too… uncomfortable of a notion, I believe someone could spare a cabin for you."

Ophelia shook her head. "No, I won't steal it from someone else, I just need… if you don't mind."

"I would not offer if I minded," he said, relieved, walking her over to the tent and holding it open for her. It was plain and cramped with all he hoarded inside: a small desk in the forefront with an unlit lantern resting on top of it; a trunk in the corner with a red tunic peeking out of the side; an armor stand, empty, the gear resting on his shoulders. A cot was in the back, just barely peeking out from a separator.

She went straight for a chair near his desk, face flushing at the idea of sleeping in his bedroll. He didn't argue, or insist, perhaps feeling the same embarrassment as her, though he did point out the blanket in the corner if she needed it.

"Thank you," she said, relieved, picking it up and wrapping it around her shoulders. Just the weight of it made her drowsy, and the scent of woodsmoke that she assumed was just Cullen made it pleasantly so. Cullen shifted on his feet, nodding as he lowered the flaps to spare her the sun on her face.

Her face heated, trying not to look so comfortable in his blanket when it was already damning enough to be in his tent, but her eyes caught on an empty dagger scabbard. "I never gave you back that dagger. It's still in my room," she said.

He paused only a moment and when he smiled, it was crooked, sweet, genuine. "Keep it, I daresay you would feel safer if you had it on you."

She smiled back, curling up beneath the blanket, feeling her eyes grow heavy. "You will have to show me how to use it again then."

The last thing she heard before sleep claimed her was a quiet, "As you wish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for what as you wish means. Unfortunately, our lovely Ophelia and Cullen haven't quite realized it yet.


	9. Power in Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen helps Ophelia learn to fight, the group discovers the assassin's possible identity, and the Inquisitor returns with the templars. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this long chapter as a treat and a thank you for how wonderful everyone has been to me!

The mages settled into the Inquisition with less headache than he feared. More children and elderly among them than he would prefer for the days to come, bringing with it a sickening sense of what the templars were truly fighting. Their arrival brought a boost of morale he didn't anticipate, but it brightened many a person's day to see the children falling into each other's arms, unafraid of the concept of mages or magic, for which even Cullen managed a passing smile as he left his recruits to Rylen's capable command.

A figure perched on crates beside his tent caught his eyes. Ophelia sat on one, legs crossed beneath her, staring into the breach with a furrow in her brow. Books were stacked on her left side, her forefinger marking the page where she stopped while talking with a mage he only vaguely knew as Emrys.

"Does it hurt to use?"

"Yes," she replied, tracing her finger over the mark with a wince.

The mage had another question, but his presence made them pause. With one wary glance at him, they murmured a farewell before scurrying back to the safety of Grand Enchanter Fiona who stood near the blacksmith in discussion with Blackwall and Mattrin. The addition of a third person didn't halt their animated conversation, but Fiona did look in his direction briefly.

Cullen frowned. His presence was the other complication with the mages. Between Kirkwall's own reputation, and Varric's writing on the events, he wasn't a favorite among the mages. He imagined he wouldn't ever be, but to be outright feared?

"I thought it might be easier for everyone if I was here. Solid wall behind my back and a tent to" she said upon spotting him, sounding relieved to be free of the conversation. He tore his eyes away from the mages. "It works out, I like it out here more than I do in, uh, there with all the Chantry officials around. I think my Great Aunt Beatrice is there." Her nose scrunched with distaste for this relative. "Things are close to ending if the clerics are here, isn't it?"

His steps stopped fully. She pulled her hair to the side, twisting the strands into a braid, peaceful without the prodding of her mark. With the added sleep, too, he thought with approval. After leaving her in his tent - something that still brought heat to his face despite the innocence of the whole thing - she hadn't woken again until early this morning. Unfortunately for him, he can still recall the sly smile on Rylen's face when she exited his tent with day old clothes, messy hair, and a thankful smile sent his way.

No troops knew, thankfully, but he wondered if they guessed from the way she returned to this part of camp a few hours later and lingered the rest of the afternoon. She conversed quietly with Varric and Dorian, then Dara and Tanner, and then two mages asking to prod at her hand for which she could only say "Perhaps later" without specification.

His duties left him little time to speak with her until now, but Cullen was aware of her, watching him and the others when boredom drew her from her books.

He didn't mind - her presence prompted some of them to work harder. Nor did he mind allowing her to stay in his tent the night before. It had earned good natured teasing from Josephine, laughter from Rylen, and a frown from Leliana, but it was worth it to see her looking less like death.

Her last words rattle around in his head. "What do you mean?"

"Word has spread about the Inquisition's efforts, they know you are closing the breach and they must know… They must know the Inquisition cannot protect me beyond this point."

"We will," he said with certainty. No one told him, and it hadn't been discussed in the war room, but Cullen couldn't imagine sending her away without trying to halt it. Not after everything that had happened. She looked startled, fingers stilling on her hair. "Having you here has done us well. The Inquisition halted the Mage-Templar War - however temporarily people might see it - and we're closing the breach, none of which would be possible without you here. None of us will forget that."

She toyed with the braid, unraveling several pieces and then trying again. "You spend a great deal of time supporting me," she said quietly. "Even though I've only brought trouble to you and yours."

"I lived in the same city as Hawke for ten years, I can guarantee she's given me more trouble than anything you've done thus far," he assured her before pushing back to the original worry. "I don't believe they are here to bring you to the gallows after all this, they are here for something else."

"For what?"

"Hope, I'd like to think. We can't be the only people out here wishing for a better tomorrow."

"I didn't take you for the hopeful type."

"No? I don't either, but I want to be," he said with a sigh. She finished braiding her hair, fiddling with the bottom with uncertainty. He cast around for something else to say and his eyes caught sight of the hilted dagger resting near her thigh on the crate. "You asked me to show you how to use the dagger. If you are free, this might be the last quiet moment to do so before the Inquisitor returns and preparations begin."

Ophelia smiled, a tentative one as it always was, but she didn't hesitate to take his hand this time. He helped her down from the crate. It wasn't strictly necessary to hold her hand while doing so, and he let it go once she was safely on both feet.

His eyes narrowed, looking around. "Where are your shadows?" Until the assassin was caught, they weren't to leave her side, but neither of her people were nearby.

"Dara is with your people. I think he's trying to make eye contact with every person in the Inquisition to determine who the, uhm, who the culprit was. Sorry, is what happened meant to be a secret?"

"Not common knowledge, but it isn't… the most well-kept secret. People are putting the pieces together quickly," he said. It wasn't ideal for investigating, and Leliana was no more finding answers than himself. "And your other one? Tanner?"

"I am not sure, but I rarely know where he is. I didn't know there were two guards on me until Dara called for him." She rubbed her shoulder. The injured one, he noted, looking her over critically. Teaching her how to fight with a wound wasn't a wise idea, but, much as he wanted to recommend she rested further, Cullen couldn't imagine her accepting. Nor could he imagine she would always be woundless.

They should have done something like before they had gone to Redcliffe and certainly afterwards.

Chances are if she had to use the dagger, things were already off to a wrong start. It didn't make him halt the question as it came. "Does it bother you?"

"Sometimes it aches." He frowned, rethinking this idea despite his thoughts the contrary. Ophelia shook her head, waving her hands. "No, no I should be fine for training. Please." Her eyes were wide, and Cullen studied her for all of a moment before giving in.

Rylen shot him an amused look as they approached. Cullen lifted his brows in response, and his second gave an answering grin. They communicated silently for a moment before Rylen called for the recruits to start their laps around the lake while the ground was still mush - perfect for building endurance and strength, he said, to the groans of others.

Cullen waited for the last of them to leave. His relief at the lack of an audience was second only to the tiny sigh from Ophelia as he guided her over to an area devoid of snow. He had her stretch for a moment, focusing on her injured shoulder while he opened up a nearby chest for a set of gloves that weren't like armor.

"Chances are you won't be using this unless it's a last resort. You're wounded, someone else is wounded, your staff is broke," he said. "You need to know how to stand, or they'll knock your feet out from under you before you can even draw your weapon. We'll add weapons to the mix later. Show me how you stand, pretend you have a weapon."

She shifted into position, and he nodded his head. "Good for if you have a staff with a longer reach, but to use something like this, you'll be closer to them. If there's ever an option to run, I would recommend taking it, but if there isn't…" He trailed off, and this time, she nodded.

Adjusting her stance was easy enough and she learned fairly quickly. It was only when she winced slightly that he tilted his head, pausing mid-sentence. "Are you sure your shoulder is alright?"

"It is, I… Sorry, I keep seeing someone." She sighed, and he followed her gaze to where one of the patrols was rounding the edge of the lake. This was near enough her accident that he understood her reluctance to linger. "I keep thinking how lucky I was they missed, or that Dara pushed me out of the way, I don't really remember all of what happened anymore. A good thing, I think, I don't really want to remember. I see it enough when I sleep."

"You saw who did it, didn't you?" Perhaps they were foolish to not have asked her more. As he spoke, he absently shifted to stand on her other side, shielding her from view for anyone on the lake. It meant they were closer together, but some of the worry fell from her eyes.

"Vaguely. The sun was in our eyes and I didn't… Well, I didn't really pay attention to what anyone looked like, I've only ever watched their uniforms." From the look on her face, it wouldn't be a mistake she made again.

"Unfortunate," he said, sighing.

"Sorry."

It wasn't the first time she had said so. "It's- You don't have to apologize. Dara said much of the same in his report - has Leliana not requested one from you?"

"She talked to me in person. For someone so sweet looking, she's awfully intimidating."

"She has that way about her," he agreed. "Would you prefer to stop?"

Ophelia shook her head. With a stubborn tilt of her chin, she attempted the stance once more.

He studied her, deciding after a second's debate that it was her choice to continue or not and he would simply have to trust her judgment until proven otherwise. His foot reached out to nudge against her ankle, shifting her stance wider. "You're smaller than most of your opponents, and you can't guarantee you're faster than them. I wouldn't recommend facing them head on," he said.

"I'm no Knight-Enchanter," she agreed, following his silent instruction into the proper position. "I'd like to avoid falling on my blade." Her eyes drift to the snow around them, the wind choosing then to pick up ferocity. The braid held her hair in place as the wax did his, but it did send the snow flurrying across the training area.

"Did you do that?"

"No, but I think it's more proof of what Varric says: my luck is weird." She sighed. "How does this help me when I'm using the dagger?"

"If you are using it for an attack, you'll need to use more than your arms. Your body is stronger together than it is apart." Cullen eased off his gauntlet, reaching out for the thick gloves set aside on the lid of the chest and returning to her. "Punch my hand without moving anything other than your arm."

"Is that safe?"

"The gloves will protect your hand so long as you know how to make a fist," he said, eyebrow raising. What self-defense did she know? It was the first time he was seeing her fight since the future, and much of the time there was spent trying to keep her alive, not watch her fight.

Ophelia huffed goodnaturedly. "I meant for you. Perhaps I am very good at hitting."

He laughed. "I daresay the gloves will protect me, too. I've been hit by worse than an unarmored mage." Plenty worse, but Cullen shut the thought away, wanting to keep the lightness of the moment.

"If you say. I won't have this added to my list of crimes," she said with a puff of her cheeks.

She punched his hand and he tried not to smirk at the lack of feeling when her full momentum wasn't in it. Nor her heart: her hit half the shape of what it should be. "Not much there and you run the risk of falling off balance or leaving yourself open." His hand lowered, fingers splaying out near her stomach without touching. He should have done so, a sharp jab always brought the point home, but she wasn't a properly dressed recruit who had protection nor did he enjoy the idea of treating her like one in the first place without discussion.

She was more...

Cullen shook his head and stepped away. He showed her the proper movement. "Back into position. When we use your full body, you'll feel the difference, try to shift your weight on your feet when you do."

"Is it... like this?"

"Close." Better than he expected from someone who didn't know it until a few moments ago. Dara or Tanner could have shown her how to do it, but Cullen took a peculiar satisfaction at showing her himself. "Elbows up a little more- right there. One leg back further- good. Now punch." He held up his hand again and her fist crashed into it. Stronger, something he felt through the glove, but barely. More importantly: "You hesitated."

"I did?" She said, surprised.

"It's hard to punch someone you consider a friend- That is, not to assume you do with me, or consider us- but a familiar face always makes us pause. I would be surprised if you hadn't." Maker's breath, must he stammer like a young boy? Cullen didn't know why she made his tongue twist itself into knots, but she did. "Try again," he suggested quickly.

She did. Same issue, same pause.

"Hm, perhaps we should try with a dummy," he mused.

Her elbows drooped. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be apologetic about. Everyone learns differently and most have the luxury of practicing for longer than a few hours," he reassured her.

"You should treat me like any other recruit then. Maybe if you snap at me like them, I'll get the hint," she said, thoughtful. "Or I'll cry, I don't know which way the wind blows today."

Perplexed, but also amused at her blunt honesty, Cullen laughed. "Perhaps we will save that as a last resort, I have no wish to make you cry."

"The recruits are quite lucky to have a commander who doesn't make them bawl. I thought that was a requirement in this line of work."

"Certainly not on purpose, but I wouldn't be surprised if someone did. None of this we are doing is gentle, we have to be ready for anything," he said, sighing.

Ophelia dropped her arms, shaking out her fingers. "What..." She frowned. "What do you think will happen in the coming days? Honestly."

"In a word? Trouble."

"And in many words?"

He paused for a moment. It would be a lie to say he didn't have contingencies in place in the event the mages break out in abominations, or the templars lose their wits and their sanity at the sight of mages free in the Inquisition. Or that he was training his people for a fight for which they had only information garnered from the future, and limited at that, and he wasn't yet sure if they would win. The only bright side - and he used the term loosely for there was nothing bright about it - was that he knew exactly why they couldn't lose and it only prompted him to strive for better.

The words from the future haunted him. Protect her, save them. Make sure they died for something good as if he had any idea what that was.

Cullen would spare her the truth if he could but she asked for honesty. "We know little of this Elder One. Whoever they are, they will not make this an easy fight, but I have hope that we have a stronger motivation to win than they do." She seemed relieved at this answer. "No one beyond the few who were told will know about the future, but none of them would want to see it happen anymore than you or I."

"Between you and everyone else in the Inquisition - "

"Yourself included, I should hope," he interrupted.

She smiled, but continued without pause. "- especially with Hawke, I suppose I should have more faith in making things right."

"Right," he agreed in a murmur, knowing it was hardly the best response, but knowing he could not put it any better. "I remember being told a long time ago that faith was something you have to hold through the good and the bad and I believe that's the case with us, too. Hold onto that feeling when you feel the rest faltering." Better. "This way, I can show you what to do easier. A dummy will be necessary for the next part, but I fear we will have little time to do it before the rest return."

"Next part? I suppose practicing with a dagger on you might push it, I would like to avoid skewering friends, too," she said, hesitating.

He spotted her thumb tapping as he led her off to the side where an unused training dummy waited for them. Nerves? Cullen didn't know what part of the last few weeks was bothering her, and it struck him how much had changed for her. Circle mage one day, prisoner the next, and the punches kept coming. It was a better question of what wasn't hurting her these days.

Worst still was the realization of how long it had been since the world turned upside down. Only a few months ago, he was in Kirkwall, trying to keep the city from tearing itself apart. Now he was here, trying to keep the world from doing the same.

"Do you consider us friends?" Ophelia blurted out. Her thumb tapped faster, and he wondered if his earlier unthought words were the source of her sudden worry.

He rubbed the back of his neck, internally cursing himself for ruining the pleasantness of their time. In truth, the idea was almost ludicrous. Cullen didn't make friends with mages, he tolerated the ones he barely knew and he respected the ones he worked with in the Inquisition. Friendship seemed...

Well, in truth, it seemed like a risk, one he was afraid to make. The last time he did so was Kinloch, and he didn't want to remember how that ended. It scared him, but the voice of doubt, reminding him of Kinloch whenever a mage grew close, was lessening the longer he spent around them as an equal. The longer he spent around protecting _with_ them.

He hadn't considered becoming friends with a mage, and he hadn't ever thought about what said mage might think if he did. His past shamed him, he couldn't imagine forgiveness from that.

Not wielding a sword was as damning as lifting it at times.

"If the idea is adverse to you... because of my past... then I would not be insulted," he said slowly, hands on his neck, eyes shifting from hers to the way her thumb tapped on her finger.

It stilled. "No!" Ophelia shook her head sharply. It made the bangs fall into her face, dark hair on russet skin, momentarily distracting her. She flicked it back into place, huffing an annoyed sigh. "In the future, you said you trusted me. I... Did you mean that?"

Cullen stared. He had said that, hadn't he? In all the things to happen afterwards - the blood, the death, and the alliance - he had forgotten saying it. Nor had he realized the way it lingered in her head, something she had thought about just enough to remember it now.

"I did- I mean, I do. I have seen madness in people's eyes before, I have seen the type of anger in them that ruins lives. Your eyes..." Green like the fade, he remembered thinking with some wariness once upon a time, but green like the grass on a warm day, too. Cullen didn't think he trusted easily, too wrapped up in hurts and pains from the past, but he rather thought she wormed her way in. It was hard to imagine her as anything less than a friend after their talks and their travels. "I don't see that in your eyes. I was not lying in that dungeon, I do trust you, perhaps more than others would prefer."

She watched him a moment, thinking. "Leliana?" She guessed. He only offered a half smile in her response. "I guess it's her job to distrust people. I... No one has trusted me in a long time, I forget sometimes how to respond to it, but I... I trust you, too. I am not adverse to being friends, I would... I would like that."

She cleared her throat and changed the subject without waiting for a response. "So, the dummy? Punch it like you said?"

It took him a moment to respond, but then he nodded. Ophelia punched again, making a face when the dummy didn't so much as wiggle at her hit.

"Follow through with your punches," he said. At her baffled look, Cullen removed the gloves, the fabric and cushion too bulky for the help she required. Once they were off though, he hesitated before reaching out to her. "May I?"

She smiled, looking up at him.

For a moment, he couldn't look away from it.

"Show me."

Cullen stepped up behind her, his hand landing on her elbow and adjusting it. His fingers slid down her arm, curling over her fingers. "Like this," he said, guiding her hand through the motion. "Don't pull back at the end, force yourself to push through. Imagine your hit going through their body - you won't, but it helps you follow through with the hit. Just like that."

He relinquished his grip on her hand, taking a step back as she tried the hit again. The dummy didn't wiggle, and she looked at her hand, disappointed. He laughed. "You will be stronger with time. I am afraid these are built stronger than you and most others. I believe only Cassandra has the force to knock them over."

"That does sound like her," she mused. "Are you close? You don't call her by any titles."

"She refuses to answer to any titles, but yes, I would say we are close. More so than I am with others at any rate."

"Oh." A pause. Her cheeks turned an interesting shade of red. "Are you and her...? She never said, but, ah, I am not so close to her."

It took several seconds for Cullen to process the implications and when he did, he could only blink. A laugh escaped him, and he shook his head. "You misunderstand me. Nothing so romantic, she was the one to recruit me into the Inquisition, and she has been-" He stopped, clearing his throat. His withdrawal was a secret limited to only Cassandra and Leliana, perhaps Hawke, and he feared sharing it with others meant inviting disaster. Cassandra was a valued support to his cause, and someone who encouraged his attempts to rattle the chains binding him. "- a valued friend since I joined. In truth, she reminds me of my sister."

"Oh, you have siblings?"

He nodded. "Three. Two sisters and a brother - that reminds me, I should send them a letter. I haven't sent them anything since I left Kirkwall." He felt some guilt for it, but he knew they would understand. Or, rather, he could only hope they did. The only thing more difficult than staring at a blank sheet of paper meant for them and finding nothing to say was, perhaps, the withdrawal itself.

"Funny, I'm the opposite. Two brothers and a sister, all older than me unfortunately," she said, head shaking. "I can only imagine how they are reacting to the rumors since the Inquisition has found me again, but given they never responded to my last letter, I imagine it's relief to disown me on account of murder and heresy."

That surprised him. "We didn't know you were in contact with them. They said they hadn't heard from you."

She grew pensive, her thumb tapping once more. "I don't know if they even got my letter. Perhaps this is all just a fluke of my luck and they are mourning me." She didn't need to say she doubted it, it was written on her face.

"Is there a way to find out? You could write to them." Rich coming from him. The look of amusement she sent him seemed to agree. "Perhaps they do mourn you." Perhaps his own mourn him.

"I think my letter pushed the boundaries of my family's loyalty to me as is if they did receive it. I fear doing anymore would have repercussions," she said with a frown. "In truth, I haven't seen them since the templars first took me to the circle."

"You have a good heart to risk so much for a family you aren't close with any longer," he said quietly. Ophelia tensed, eyes distraught and jaw tight. Sympathy welled in him, more than aware of how aching it was to be separated from family, and at once aware that his isolation was self-imposed.

His hand hovered over her shoulder and when she did not bat it away, he let it rest there. She let out a breath. "I don't think my family and I will ever go back to being what we were when I was a child. When you're a mage, you aren't allowed a family, they don't allow it. They take away the one you make and they take away the one you were first given," she said, bitterness leaking into her voice. " This letter is one of many I have sent since being taken to the circle, but this one… this one is most important. They don't even know if I'm alive! Whatever I do, I don't know if I do it for _them_. I don't even know if they are my family in anything other than name."

He didn't flinch, but it felt as though cold water were dumped onto his head.

She pushed the emotion from her voice with an abrupt clear of her throat, a tightness lingering still as she murmured, "Sorry."

"You needn't apologize for speaking the truth," he said. No matter how unpleasant it was to hear. It was easy to forget the little things he took for granted, and how even life in a good circle came at the price of sacrifice for the people forced to live in it. There were things to say, something he owed for all the parts he had played in stories like this, but this was not an apology he owed her and the people he did owe it to were long gone. Still, it came unbidden to his lips. "I'm sorry."

"We should.. Perhaps we should stop apologizing to each other for something we didn't do," she said after a pause, attempting a smile, echoing a sentiment they had once shared in this spot weeks ago. She didn't wait for a response beyond his short nod, changing the subject with a swiftness he was becoming accustomed to with her. "How does punching relate to using a dagger?"

"Some of the same principles. A balanced stance is as important in this as it is in punching," he said slowly, blinking through the haze. "You can't expect cutting through armor and flesh to be easy."

"Commander?" Ophelia flinched at the interruption, arms bunching around herself in defense and only halting in her rock backwards at Cullen's unperturbed face. Jim didn't walk quietly, though he was unsure whether this was a deliberate choice or Jim's lack of subtlety, and Cullen had heard him a moment before.

"Duty calls?" she murmured.

"As you say," he said. "We will continue this another time. That is, if you wish…?"

She smiled faintly, looking worn around the edges and tired once more. Less haunted, perhaps, which he considered a small victory. "When you are free, Commander. I… Oh, Dara went with your captain," she hesitated, looking around with a rising wariness. The gates were close, he could see her eyeing them, but her chatter of clerics, Chantry, and things lost lingered in his mind.

"You are welcome to make use of my chair. I will be out here and I can inform Dara of your location when he arrives," he said, once more resigned to teasing, but determined. The hesitation on her face lasted only a moment, heat rising in her cheeks, but the relief outweighed the rest and she nodded, scurrying over to the crate for her books and then to his tent.

The flaps remained open, and he could see her pointedly trying not to look at his bedroll in the back as she dropped into the only chair, returning to her reading.

It made him want to laugh, but he cleared his throat, ears red, and turned to Jim with a raised brow.

...

...

Two hours later brought Rylen and the recruits, the latter breaking off into small groups as they were dismissed for the evening. He didn't have the time to warn Rylen before he was peeking in the tent where Ophelia had fallen asleep an hour before. It was only Cullen's exasperated call that had him turning to walk over with a grin on his face.

Dara, meanwhile, looked quite unsettled. "Your charge is resting," he said, indicating with his head, and the man sighed, relieved, walking a safe distance away to resume his watch. Cullen looked at Rylen. "How did it go?"

"Thought we'd fight a bison for fun, but the recruits voted against it- Aye, fine, it was no more different than usual, they still slid around in the mud like they were walking on ice." Rylen's wry grin morphed into a larger one and Cullen shook his head, gesturing for them to walk, because Rylen wouldn't miss the chance to speak and Leliana required his attention before the Inquisitor returned.

"Say it," he said with a sigh.

Rylen kept a straight face. "I have nothing to say."

"I don't believe that for a moment."

"Oh, you meant about the Herald and the fact that she has lingered around you a great deal? I had no idea you were such friends! Have you found a new second then?" he said, his brogue thick, betraying the deadpan.

"She is under Inquisition protection."

"Aye, and you specifically. I have no arguments against it, she's a pretty sight on the field and it's always useful."

"Rylen."

"Ack, you have no sense of humor. I only meant people could use the reminder of why we're fighting that's a little more pleasant than _that_ eye sore," Rylen said, looking up at the breach.

"They'll have time to rest soon and enjoy the pleasant things more when this is over," he said as they passed through the gate, his chin gesturing to the children settled around Varric's fire. Cullen hoped the dwarf had sense to edit some of his stories for the sake of his audience. As if sensing this thought, Varric looked up and winked mid sentence as they passed.

"Almost time, isn't it? Herald ready for it?"

Rylen didn't question where they were going as they made the slow trek to Leliana's commander which was, as most things in Haven, simply a tent.

"She will be." The future drifted to the forefront of his thoughts. _If she did not cause this, then her being alive is the Maker's will. I must believe that._ Cassandra's faith always steadied him, and he wondered what people agreed with her thoughts already. "She's the herald to you, is she?"

"My ma had a saying: if something walked like a nug and acted like a nug, it's more likely to be a nug than a horse," he said. "Don't know if she's the Maker's hand in all this, but I ken she isn't responsible. I recall her bumping into me when back in the fort. Far too skittish. Better to remind people to keep their eyes open for the real threat. If this is the way to do it then so be it."

He hadn't seen Ophelia until the last moment in the fort, but Rylen's words tracked with what he knew. "We are of the same mind then," he said as they reached Leliana's post, pausing as he spotted Tanner lingering with her.

Rylen laughed. "I ken. You make it no secret that you believe her, Cullen. Commander. Sister." He saluted both of them before continuing on his walk, heading inside the Chantry.

He had little wish to unpack Rylen's words. "You wished to discuss something?" he asked, looking between Tanner and Leliana with interest.

"News on our assassin," she said, appraising him for a long moment, as if she had already heard word of everything to happen today. Her opinion on his newfound friendship with Ophelia was obvious in the disapproval in her eyes, but she didn't voice it, turning back to Tanner. "You were saying you think it's the templar Mattrin?"

Cullen's lips parted, recalling his conversation with Ophelia before she left for the Hinterland weeks ago, his forehead creasing with his frown.

" _He will have a less than flattering account of my person-"_

" _He did."_

Was it that simple?

Tanner nodded, looking far more at ease with Leliana's piercing stare than most others would be. She trained her people well. "Aye." It was strange to hear Rylen's accent with someone else. "He was on patrol that night, I recall seeing him leave the gates shortly after the prisoner and Dara, he was the last person I let out before following them," he explained, frowning.

"What makes you think it's him?" Cullen asked.

"He's no huge fan of our prisoner. Dara and I tend to encourage the lass to walk a different path than the one he's on to avoid conflict. Not the only person here, mind you, but knows her from the circle if I recall?" He didn't wait for an answer. "He's a decent tracker, a great deal better than myself, but by the time I found him, the storm was in full effect and even the best of skills were useless. I didn't think anything of it, but where was he? Half the patrol was involved in the search."

"Some might say the same of you," Leliana remarked. "You were the far guard, you should have been in position."

"I didn't realize how far they had gotten," he explained, uncomfortable under her eyes for the first time. "It was a mistake I won't let happen again."

"And you didn't see the culprit?"

"No, Commander. The person was in an Inquisition uniform and hiding in a sun spot, I didn't even know something was wrong until Dara told me to follow him," he said, defeated. Then he perked up. "But Mattrin. I dunno, he's not the best with a bow and the shot was badly done, someone with skill could have caught her in the eye and he's in the tavern as we speak, complaining to his buddies that she's getting too friendly with people. It seemed only right to tell you."

"Thank you," she said as he finished speaking. Sensing the dismissal, Tanner stood up with a nod, and exited the tent with a brief salute.

Leliana, ever vigilant, waited for him to disappear fully and his footsteps to fade away before she turned to Cullen with a pensive frown. "Mattrin has skill enough with a bow to make the attempt and fail. His animosity for Trevelyan is well-known, he hasn't made his… opinion on the matter secret, I was going to recommend we have him removed from Haven when the Inquisitor returned. Too many people agree with him."

Cullen would have agreed before Redcliffe, before the mages, before people had gotten a taste of hope. "Why now? If he was going to attack, he should have done so when people were more inclined to believe it a good thing she died." He recalled Rylen's words. How many others echoed his sentiment? "As it stands now, I have heard more people call her the Herald than the prisoner, I cannot see a motive in this."

Leliana nodded. "I agree, we need to know more. Can you move him to guard duty near the gates? I have people who can watch him, and he will be more likely to slip up, especially if Trevelyan stays nearby. Let us see what he does when she is around."

The first time he saw her close to death was when they had sealed the rift below the breach. His world had been swallowed in green light and when his vision cleared, she was falling. He had carried her down the mountain himself.

The second had been in the fort as she closed another rift, uncaring of the shade reaching for a shot, his blade only just killing it. He hadn't been able to carry her from the room, his arm wounded in the fighting, but the image of her croaked hello lingering in his ears.

The last was only a week ago. With mussed hair and bloodied clothes, he hadn't been able to rid his mind of the smile she granted him when he arrived, as though she were relieved at his presence. When she fell, this time he was close enough to catch her.

He had too many memories involving Ophelia falling unconscious and near death for him to stand the idea of placing her who might have tried to kill her once before. "I don't think it's wise to use Lady Trevelyan as bait. The chances of something going wrong are too risky," he argued.

She raised a brow and said coldly. "She has you, does she not? If you are going to be her defender, we have little reason for a third guard on her."

"You know what I mean, Leliana."

She grimaced. "I think it is foolish to become attached to her, we don't know her motives."

"She's said what they are."

"Yes, for her family. Yet we have no attempts at communicating with them and only vague reports about her time in the Ostwick Circle, but nothing to support a noble with considerable sway visiting their family," she said, choosing not to comment on the way his expression tightened. "I do not think she is the culprit, no, but until I know what her reasons are for leaving, I cannot say I trust her nor can I advise someone else to do so. Least of all you."

He paused.

 _My family needs me._ That's what she said in the War Room when they found her the second time.

 _In truth, I haven't seen them since the templars first took me to the circle… Whatever I do, I don't know if I do it for them._ She had said that only a few hours ago.

"I don't know what her motives are, but I don't believe they are malicious," he said after a pause, thinking of the bitterness and anger lacing her voice. It wasn't anger turned to coldness, it was hurt.

Leliana sighed. "I never thought I'd see the day where you thought a mage was innocent." It was a peace offering, but it nonetheless made him flinch. "I hope you are right."

…

...

Hawke arrived with the fanfare of stomping boots, murmured complaints, and the whinnying of horses pushed to their limits. Their numbers were far fewer in number than Cullen would have liked to see, especially with the shortage of mages in position to fight after weeks on the run.

His gut tightened with a momentary fear at the idea of abominations springing among the ranks with so few templars to handle them. He smothered it, reminding himself of the contingencies and plans in place. His discussion with Grand Enchanter Fiona, Bethany, and a select few other members had taken several hours, the majority of which had covered that very possibility. In the end, they had come up with a solution pending Hawke's approval. It was a wise plan, and it was old fears saying otherwise, and he would not give them the credence to linger.

The templars halted as the Inquisitor swung out of her saddle.

Only a few templars looked at the mages lingering around with suspicion. Cullen committed their faces to memory as Hawke approached. "Pleasant travels?" He asked, looking her over. A cut on her cheek looked several days old and healing, but nonetheless would leave a scar.

She looked at him, lips pursed in displeasure. "Of a sorts," she said in clipped tones. Her chin dipped. "We need to meet in the war room, have everyone meet me there in twenty..." After an inhale and a scowl, she amended, "In an hour. My friends, too, I want their assistance. Will you be able to handle the templars? They have no senior leadership now, I'd like your help in getting things straightened with them."

"It will be no hardship, Inquisitor. I will ensure everyone has lodgings and an understanding.."

"Fantastic. Wait, what's the game plan for the mages and the templars being here then?"

Cullen sighed, only avoiding pinching his nose because eyes were on them, even if the general movement of others masked their conversation. "You and Bethany did not discuss a plan prior?"

"I'm neither a mage nor a templar, I can't make a decision for them," she pointed out with a shrug. "I can only point out my perspective and when they are being stupid. Which is usually often, but more so since the world started ending. So?"

"The mages are our allies and as much a part of the Inquisition as any other person," he said.

Hawke's gaze was piercing. The sort of look that made him feel as though she were looking straight through him and into the heart of matters. He felt exposed for all to see, but he tried not to flinch from her look, from the slightest bit of doubt she couldn't quite dislodge. "Fantastic," she repeated, more enthused than she did before, finding something she liked in his face. "We'll have to find a way to tell them. If they get mouthy, remind them who offered them a place to rebuild and re-find their honor."

She patted him on the shoulder and then departed.

As if he had any room to judge people about honor.

He shook his head. "Templars," he said. It caught their attention, their faces tired and worn, but eyes looking at him in question. Trusting him. The doubt didn't show in Cullen's face, he prided himself on his ability to keep a straight face. He was no young man in need of guidance, nor a templar straying from the path.

It was, however, difficult to feel different than them when their armor gleamed. When the lyrium clung to their skin. No, not noticeably, and yet his body hummed with awareness.

Cassandra appeared beside him, looking none the worse for wear after days of travel.

Between the two of them, it took all of several minutes to assign all the templars to quarters. Some grumbled at the shared tents that would be their home, protests silenced with a sharp look from a brown man with sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes introduced as Delrin Barris. It was unfortunate how many people were crammed together, but there was little he could do about it with their resources. If the Inquisition continued growing, they would have to find somewhere else to hold them.

For now, he just hoped it would last through closing the breach.

"We heard only pieces of news about Redcliffe," Cassandra said once the templars were escorted to their lodgings, the clanking of their armor and their murmurs fading into the normal sounds of the Inquisition.

He didn't want to think about Redcliffe, truthfully. The last several hours showing Ophelia how to fight and how to use a dagger had - almost - erased the dreadful experience from his head. It was silly to hope he could forget about it, he knew it was all important for Hawke to know, but it was… more like Kinloch than he cared to admit. He pursed his lips, only relieved he would not have to tell it in front of Ophelia and Dorian. The former's fear and the latter's curiosity were much too strong for the type of level-headed he needed to be for this discussion.

"We've heard even less about your time fetching the templars."

Cassandra made a noise of disgust. "I forget what it is like among nobility. We would have returned days ago if we didn't have some of them slowing us down."

"I didn't see any nobles," he said with surprise.

"Josephine handled them, there was only one family who returned all this way with us. The rest were content to head home the moment things proved to be turning south," she said, frustrated. "This one was adamant about returning with us."

Cullen grimaced. "For what reason?"

"Did Hawke not tell anyone? No, I suppose that would require her sending letters, something she only does when the prisoner is around." He made a face, and she echoed it with a grimace. "Yes, I know. I must… work on that. But regardless several members of House Trevelyan have chosen to visit us. Bann Trevelyan and his templar son among them. I do hope Hawke has told _someone_ about his arrival."

He rubbed a hand over his face, stifling a groan. "I spoke with Lady Trevelyan this morning. There was no comment about her family coming to visit."

Cassandra paused. "Well. I didn't think I would say this so soon, but at least Varric is here, he will no doubt make use of this."

"What does that mean?"

She waved a hand dismissively and no sooner opened her mouth to question him on something else when footsteps heralded the arrival of a man who dwarfed even Cullen in height. The russet skin and green eyes were similar to his sister, but his face was thin and pointed where hers was soft and rounded. The smile on his face, however, was almost identical to hers, wider and freely given.

Beside him was another man with the same thin and pointed face, face lined with age and dark hair turning mostly grey around his pale temples. He didn't smile and he looked quite unlike Ophelia except for their eyes.

"Commander Cullen? I fear you may not remember me, we met briefly in Kirkwall, I was part of the Starkhaven Circle sent to help the city. Alfonso Trevelyan," said the first man, reaching out a hand in greeting. Alfonso was right, he didn't recognize him at all, but he had spent a long while trying to purge some of his memories of Kirkwall. Especially the dark days after Meredith's fall when Starkhaven was sent to help.

Alfonso didn't seem bothered by his lack of recognition. He continued on with little fuss. "May I introduce my father? Bann Grey Trevelyan of Ostwick."

"I am quite capable of speaking," said Bann Trevelyan stiffly.

Alfonso merely sighed. "Yes, father, but it is my pleasure to introduce you, I rarely get to take advantage of my lessons."

"This mage you claim to be my daughter, she must be brought to us at once," he said, ignoring his son. From the look on Alfonso's face, this was normal behavior.

Cullen hid the grimace with great effort and it relieved him to know she was safe in the confines of his tent, no matter the momentary embarrassment. Hopefully she had gone back to sleep, but he doubted it. "She is currently resting before her meeting with the Inquisitor."

"I would like to be present during this meeting then."

"It-" He imagined the look on Josephine's face if he denied them. Cassandra shifted on her feet, plainly irritated with the discussion and the Bann's attempt to jump into the Inquisition's business. "I am afraid some of this meeting is limited to senior members of the Inquisition, but Lady Montilyet would be delighted to speak with you privately."

There, civil. Cullen could do it when he tried.

Bann Trevelyan's lips thinned, evidence that Cullen's diplomacy skills were still lacking in many ways. After a lengthy pause, he nodded his head, still displeased, and tilted his chin in a dismissal, turning on his heel to walk away.

Alfonso watched him for several seconds and then offered an amused smile. "You get used to it, he's just a bundle of sunshine, isn't he?"

Cassandra rolled her eyes.

Cullen didn't think it was wise to respond. "Are you staying with us long, Ser Trevelyan?"

"Alfonso is fine, I'm not my brother. To answer your question: no, much as I wish I could, my father wanted to see whether the mage you have is really my sister and I am his escort. He hopes it isn't because then it means he has no reason to follow her requests." he said with a sigh. "I have told him, she would not reach out to him for nothing and who else would know of the child?"

This drew a pause from both Cassandra and Cullen. On his own, he would wait it out, sensing Alfonso the type to overtalk when given the space to do so. In truth, he found his throat too tight to speak, his conversations with Ophelia repeating in his head. Their family wasn't a close one, he knew after their conversation earlier.

 _Whatever I do, I don't know if I do it for_ them _._

With a sinking feeling, Cullen thought he knew what she meant.

Cassandra, less inclined to wait on something that could be given an answer with a direct question, narrowed her eyes. "What child do you speak of?"

He paused, hesitating. "Ah, I see this isn't common knowledge. No surprise, they don't talk about what happens to people born in the circles," he said, backtracking, pointedly ignoring Cassandra's uniform.

"I am aware of it," she said, dismissively.

Cullen didn't say anything, already knowing what Alfonso Trevelyan would say. He knew what happened to babies born in the circle, it was his least favorite part of the job in Kinloch and one he actively avoided in Kirkwall if he could, finding it too hard to witness, though he was still called to the task more times than he preferred.

He had little choice now. He couldn't walk away, not when such news painted everything he knew about Ophelia Trevelyan in a new light.

"Then you are not aware my sister had a child three years ago? She sent us a letter right after the Conclave was…" His tone quieted, eyes drifting to the breach with a pang of discomfort and pain, unaware of the way his words rocked both of them. "We received a letter asking to find her child and bring them home. Scarce on the details, or her location, only asking us to seek out a child born shortly into Harvestmere three years ago. She… volunteered to trade names with them. In Ostwick, such things have weight, there's a power in names after all, and my father was required to look into it."

Alfonso noticed their expressions and he narrowed his eyes. "I was closest to my sister when we were younger, she's only a year younger than me, and the things she said in that letter could only be my sister. My father will not be so easily convinced - he has an obligation to her request. It would make his life easier if he can pretend your Herald is someone else - don't let him." From further ahead, his father called for him impatiently. "I tell you for her sake. I trust the Inquisition to do right by her, especially if you're going to get her killed before long," he said.

With these ominous parting words, Alfonso Trevelyan turned on his heel, following his father up to the gates of Haven and disappeared within its walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprises all around and forgive me for any errors, I edited this on around four hours of sleep! 
> 
> Mattrin, it seems, or is it? As for the bluntness of chatter about a child in verse... For those of you who think I pulled the latter out of nowhere, please refer to chapters 3 and 8 which do mention a child/babe of hers a few times! You could also review Ophelia's hesitation when talking about her family ;) Tell me what you think! You can also find me on tumblr as briannasroger if you're interested in chatting about anything! 
> 
> Thank you everyone for the kind comments and speculations! It's been so fun chatting with you all! ♥


	10. Her Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia and her brother's reunion does not go as planned.

It wasn't unusual for Cassandra Pentaghast to fix her with a strange look, but it was the first time she had done so without a frown on her face. She fetched Ophelia from the Commander's tent, blushing all the while, not quite looking at her face as she did so. It made Ophelia flush, even if she was doing nothing untold, simply reading from one of the many books she brought along with her.

Her first thought was the fact Cassandra thought she and the Commander were… something more than they actually were, but the blush faded and the strange look remained. "Is something wrong?" she asked, frustrated.

"What? No, nothing of the sort, I am simply allowing the Knight-Corporal time to fetch dinner before it is gone," she said.

Ophelia cocked a brow, eyes flashing to the tavern. With a rock hitching the door open, the sounds coming from within were merry and lively. It didn't sound like anyone was readying themselves for bed after a long day, but she let it go without argument. Her experience with taverns was limited to the single time she and the Inquisition visited one in Redcliffe and found themselves face to face with a Magister. Hopefully not the norm for times in a tavern.

"I do have a question though. Was there anyone you wished to send word to while you are still in Haven?" she asked casually as they approached the gate, her voice pitched low.

She waved to Varric absently, confused at the question. "Pardon?"

"Family? Friends?" Cassandra paused, her eyes flashing. "Perhaps, a lover?"

"I have no doubts the Inquisition has sent a letter to my family. As for friends… Well, the only ones I know are already here," she said, lifting a hand to gesture around the Inquisition and the mages milling around in small pairs to converse in whispers.

Short of a brief conversation with the mage who had been her roommate since her harrowing five years ago, none of them have spoken with her. It made for a lonely time in Haven, treated like a prisoner from one group and a pariah from the others. She had latched onto conversation with the pink-faced, red haired mage named Emrys for a chance to speak about something without fear. It hadn't occurred to her that he was interested in the mark until it was too late.

"A lover?" she pushed.

Ophelia shot her a bemused look. "You are a seeker, you know mages aren't allowed anything of the sort."

"Times have changed."

"I don't believe they've changed that much."

"It hasn't stopped mages from taking lovers in the past."

"It hasn't, but I'm not one of them." Not anymore, her thoughts supplied. "I appreciate the concern, but no, there isn't anyone." Certainly no one the Inquisition could reach. She had toyed with the idea of requesting their assistance in finding Fabian and getting the answers she sought from him, but… She knew what happened to mages who were caught in trysts with templars. More than fear for her own safety, Ophelia didn't know if she could stomach ripping her child away from a happy family as the Inquisition was sure to do. If it happened to find one, she thought, lips twisting. Her only hope had been her family - and they had failed her.

Cassandra continued watching her, looking equally baffled and irritated.

"Are you joining us for the meeting, Seeker?" she asked before the woman could gather steam for another round of bizarre questions.

It worked. Cassandra, clearly annoyed, sighed,. "No, I have other obligations. The Inquisitor wishes for myself or the Commander around the templars until things have calmed. I have told her the templars will honor their word, but she is understandably reluctant. Given the mages are under the same watch from Bethany or Leliana, I can understand the precaution."

Ignoring the templars had been a feat Ophelia didn't realize she was capable of until that moment. It was easier in the tent, half asleep over one of her books, and only Dara's shift closer had alerted her to the Inquisitor's return. She'd buried her nose in the pages, refusing to watch through the open flaps for any familiar faces.

What was worse, finding Fabian among them or finding out he wasn't? Her feelings for the templar had long faded, a bittersweet memory, but it didn't mean she wanted him walking among the Inquisition, the only person to know her loss. The worst wasn't Fabian among them, it was Fabian among them with little sympathy for what they had lost.

The chantry came into view, a flurry of activity around the gates as a group of templars spoke with the clerics in view. Ophelia tensed, wary. The cleric had fixed her with a certain avid-eyed attention since their arrival in Haven, as much confused about her place in the Inquisition as Ophelia herself was. One in particular was enthusiastic and asked for her experience on meeting Andraste, and another had wondered when she would close the breach so they might take her back to Val Royeaux for execution.

No one looked at them as they approached and she heaved a sigh of relief. Their attention was fixed on one templar in particular who spoke with a theatrical waving of his arms and a bright smile on his face about his journey to Haven in which he had spotted a bison. "They are calm beasts, but easily startled and they were not prepared for the Inquisitor's party to return, we could see the herd panicking," he said, shaking his head.

The people were riveted on his voice: deep, pleasant, and entirely too familiar. Her steps slowed, eyes narrowing. "Who is that?" she murmured to the Seeker.

Cassandra pursed her lips.

The man continued. "I volunteered to lure it away from everyone else before it could cause an issue. I borrowed a shield from the Inquisitor and I started banging my sword on it to make the loudest rattle, I was hoping it would lead the bison away from the rest. It did, but I didn't consider the possibility that it would charge." His smile flickered to life, curled with happiness and amusement. The smile scrunched his eyes and she knew in an instant.

"Alfonso?" she asked, baffled, heart racing at the way his head jerked around at her voice. The crowd stilled, looking between them, taking in the few similarities to mark them as siblings, but for once, Ophelia didn't notice. Were they here for her? Had...had they chosen her? Hope and anxiety warred in her chest. "What in the Maker's name are you doing here?"

The smile crossing his face brought an audible sigh from a cleric. He didn't notice, striding away from the group to approach her. "Phi!" he exclaimed, relieved. Her thumbs tapped, unable to speak. "Maker, I'm glad to see you, you haven't changed a bit since the last time I saw you. No, really, you haven't grown an inch, you took more after our mother's height than any of us did, I was hoping that wasn't genetic."

People were still looking between them, awaiting a spectacle. Her saving grace was Cassandra halting with her, cool gaze flickering over every person individually. "You may finish the story later, back to your duties," she ordered.

Alfonso didn't seem concerned with the sudden absence of his crowd. "This is new though, did you get it with the Inquisition?" he asked, tapping on the scar on her forehead with a single finger. She swatted it gently and he stopped with a slight frown. It lasted only a moment and then he was laughing. "Sorry. I've missed you, it isn't quite as fun being the youngest, I have no idea how you did it so long."

"You came with the templars?" she asked, curbing her hope.

"Yes, but not with them only. I didn't come from Therinfal, I came from Ostwick. Father and I, we wanted to see you."

Her hope flared, bright and hot and warm. "Father is here, too? He hates traveling!"

Alfonso laughed. "He still does, he's been in a mood since we started. It didn't help that we went to Therinfal first and then doubled back to Haven, we saw a great deal more of Ferelden than we wished to see. I don't think the country endeared itself to him." Cassandra huffed, and he tilted his head. "See, even the Seeker agrees with me, she's met him, too. He's a lot nicer when mother is around, I assure you."

"I will believe it when I see it," Cassandra muttered.

"Were you fighting together in Therinfal?"

"Not really. We kept to ourselves, the Inquisitor seemed keen to avoid the nobility where she could, especially when the fighting began," Alfonso supplied helpfully. "No, I'm quite certain the first time we met was here in Haven. I met the Commander, too, did you know he used to serve in Kirkwall?"

"I do," she said, faintly, knowing better than to interrupt him when he was gathering steam for something.

"Nasty business there. Kirkwall, I mean, I remember seeing the devastation when I came from Starkhaven - I was stationed in Starkhaven, did you know? They wouldn't allow me at Ostwick, they seemed to think I might corrupt you or you corrupt me - and I can't imagine spending ten years there. Probably a good thing the Inquisition came along when it did, I know he's pleased with the change to some degree, he was always so dour in Kirkwall and now he smiles. Actually smiles!"

Much as his words intrigued her, she sighed, looking at Cassandra beside her, impatiently tapping her foot. It was impressive the Seeker hadn't interrupted them already. "I have a meeting with the Inquisitor I must attend to for now," she said abruptly. For all the sincerity in his voice, Ophelia reminded herself of a cold truth: her brother hadn't sent her a single letter since the templars had taken her ten years ago.

Whatever hope she had fled with this reminder.

"We will speak afterwards!"

"Perhaps." If she had it her way, she would sneak out under the guise of speaking with Cullen. Or... perhaps the Inquisitor? She had taken up enough of the Commander's time these last few days, to the point where she had stolen his tent on one such occasion, and her pride didn't allow for much more bothering. Yes, the Inquisitor would do nicely, she hadn't spoken with Hawke since their departures to Redcliffe and Therinfal respectively.

Unaware of her thoughts, Alfonso smiled. It was a nice smile, not at all like the one she remembered from her youth, back when she was a young teen just shy of seventeen showing her brother the way she could make the snowflakes flicker and the awe-filled smile he had given her. They were thick as thieves once upon a time, only two years apart, and now? Now the distance between them was so vast, they might be from different families.

"No, we will, your ambassador has already agreed to host a tea with the Inquisition leaders and father. I'll be coming along, and you'll be coming along," he said. "Afterwards, we should speak privately. I have a lot to discuss with you that can't be done around others."

She didn't respond, the words squeezing her heart. She would rather the breach swallow her up than spend an evening with her family now that she knew they had no news for her.

"Are you always so open about your plans, even when they sound utterly suspicious?" asked Cassandra with a morbid curiosity as Ophelia disappeared inside the Chantry.

"Not always. I haven't told anyone about my plan to use my shield as a sled after this meeting - well, except right this moment. Honesty is important, I have no room for lies in my life," he was saying before the doors clicked closed.

The Chantry was mostly deserted when she entered, only a few candles lit to illuminate the stones. Chancellor Roderick stood off to the side, praying beneath a statue of Andraste in a quiet murmur. While he looked up at her entrance, distaste in his eyes, he didn't say a word as she passed him for the war room.

Low murmurs came from inside, silencing as she entered and a dozen sets of eyes turned to her. It seemed as though everyone was in the room: Leliana, thoughtful; Josephine, confused; Cullen, conflicted; Hawke, amused; Bethany, sympathetic. Others, too, the ones she had only met once before: Fenris with his shocking white hair and equally light lyrium markings etched into his brown skin; Merrill with her pale face and large, bright eyes and faint tattoos; Isabela with her bosom on full display and dark eyes dancing with merriment. Varric, too, though she hadn't noticed him passing her earlier.

"I...Did I come at the wrong time?" she asked, a little uncomfortable under their looks. No wonder Cassandra wasn't attending, there were far too many people in this room, it wasn't built to host so many and she found her back pressed against the wall for breathing space.

Hawke laughed. "No. If anything, you're late."

"Silly answer. Isn't late considered the wrong time?" Merrill mused, offering Ophelia a kind smile.

Hawke didn't give them a chance to speak further on it. "Cullen told us about Redcliffe. Was there anything you remember that could help pinpoint who this Elder One is?"

Ophelia let out a breath of relief, shooting Cullen a thankful smile. He didn't notice, eyes glued to the map, and didn't look up when Hawke repeated Ophelia's name to catch her attention. She shook her head and replied, "No, nothing. Before they spoke of him, I didn't know the title existed."

"Well, at least we can knock women and children off the list, but it still leaves half of Thedas as a possibility," she said with an annoyed groan, palms resting on the table with a smack.

Ophelia's eyes were drawn to Cullen as the action startled him silently, his eyes blinking rapidly as he recalled his position. Their eyes caught for a moment before he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. The look on his face only served to baffle her further: conflicted, and worried, and baffled. It was a far cry from the man she spoke with earlier today.

Hawke rocked back from the map, making Ophelia's jolt in surprise. "Isabela, check the taverns?"

"What, all of them?" Isabela remarked with amusement. "I haven't the coin for such an expedition and it wouldn't get us anywhere, gossip in the tavern changes by the hour. No, I'll send word to my crew, the lot of them are off adventuring without me, the least they can do is tell me something about this Elder One of yours."

"Good, please do it. Coordinate with Leliana. Merrill, any sort of… elfy tricks up your sleeve?"

"I haven't got any sleeves on right this moment, nor do any of the ones I own seem particularly elfy, but I can't imagine any of them helping with answers. I would be better suited helping Bethany prepare the mages for the breach, it'll take a lot of power to close that, even with assistance in nullifying it," she replied, her fingers absently tracing over her bottom lip in thought. "It might be premature to assume women and children aren't involved, this certainly can't be the work of one person. I can't imagine anyone having that power."

"Noted," Hawke said with a sigh. "For what it's worth, I agree. This has to be more than one person." It occurred to Ophelia that her presence here was… unusual _and_ unnecessary. Cullen knew everything she did - more, in truth, given his ability to pay attention in dire situations rather than panic as she did - and she wasn't… Well, she was hardly a member of the Inquisition, was she? She was still a prisoner, even if none of them here looked at her as a suspect.

"Or a demon," Fenris said simply. Ophelia flinched, thinking his gaze was on her and catching Varric's attention instead. The dwarf was quiet as he examined Hawke with worry, and he arched a brow in question at Ophelia's movement. She shook her head, focusing in on Fenris' words, his gaze fixed on Merrill beside her. She didn't notice, or ignored it. "It could give a mage the power or knowledge to do it."

Hawke shook her head. "Not a demon. We met one in Therinfal, and it didn't know anything about the breach."

"I'm sorry, what?" Ophelia blurted out, unable to bite her tongue. "You met a demon?"

"Ugh, I know, it was awful. It kept picking at my brain like it was food, trying to figure out what made me… me," Hawke said with disgust. Their alarmed looks prompted her to roll her eyes. "Yes, I know, it's worrying, but I'm still me, we faced worse trying to help the one mage in Kirkwall. Uh, not that I helped any mages in Kirkwall because I was an upstanding citizen." Her eyes were on Cullen, brow up, and it was hard to tell if she was teasing or not.

Cullen seemed to know, and he rolled his eyes. "Yes, I am quite aware. I don't believe you are possessed, no demon could mimic you so perfectly in such a short amount of time. We would certainly know if you were acting more unusual than normal," he said dryly.

"I think that's a compliment," she said, amused as Bethany and Ophelia laughed.

He didn't respond.

"Anyway, let me tell you about Therinfal." She paused. "No, not enough time, most of it doesn't matter since it talked about the same things you learned in the future. We'll examine the evidence more after we close the breach. Short story: a demon was impersonating the Lord-Seeker and encouraging all the senior officers to drink red lyrium."

She couldn't have said it more blandly, the way someone might discuss the weather, but the room was instantly awash in voices. Cullen was pale-faced, a fear in his eyes that Ophelia had never seen before. "They were drinking it?" he asked hoarsely. "Is this why there were so few templars with you?"

"Yes. We… saved the ones we could, but there weren't a great many of them left anymore. If we had gotten there a few weeks ago, we'd have more, but…" She trailed off, shrugging, voice softening in light of the spark of grief in Cullen's eyes. It struck Ophelia that while she wasn't familiar with all the mages who had come to Haven, she had a feeling Cullen knew a great many of the templars in Therinfal.

And if Ophelia hadn't run away all those weeks ago, they could have saved more of them. She bit her lip, fingers stilling in their anxious tapping.

Ophelia missed track of the conversation for just a moment, tuning back in when Hawke wrangled the group back to the proper conversation. "The demon wanted to impersonate the Empress of Orlais, but didn't the future say she was assassinated?"

"Maybe the impersonation was meant to happen first," Josephine speculated, alarmed.

Leliana hummed, eyes narrowed, looking around the room carefully. Her eyes lingered for a moment on Ophelia, as if she might protest her presence here, but she heaved a sigh. "We will have to look into both of them, it wouldn't be easy for a demon to approach the Empress, but… Hmm. Josephine, who is the replacement for Vivienne? They are an unknown, and in the best position to strike."

"I will make the necessary letters to find out who they are and where they came from," Josephine said. "With your permission, Inquisitor?"

"We have to start somewhere and this is as good a step as any. I leave this part in your hands, update me if you have any leads," Hawke said.

Light footsteps sounded at the door, prompting Ophelia to shift on her feet, peering at the wood. Fenris and Merrill, equally alerted to the noise, looked around. "Was someone else invited along? I do hope they aren't mad that we started without them," Merrill said.

"No one," Hawke said, puzzled, calling for the person to come in.

It was one of Leliana's agents. An elf woman with short, tightly braided red hair and a smattering of freckles across her sharp, white cheeks. Her expression was curled, a look of disgust on her face. "Urgent word from the Fallow Mire, Inquisitor. Four of our agents were captured by Avvar," she said, holding out a letter. Hawke tore it from her grasp, eyes scanning over the lines. The scout - Charter, Ophelia remembered a moment later - saluted and left.

Hawke's eyes lifted, landing on Ophelia. "They want to fight the Herald in exchange for our agents."

Once more, the war room erupted in words. Hawke banged a hand on the table to silence the noise, shooting everyone a dark look. "Isabela, send your letters. Merrill, Bethany, the breach, no point saving our agents only to let the breach swallow us all. Fenris, Varric, go inform Cassandra, I'll meet her in thirty minutes at the gate."

They left and Hawke waited for the door to close before she read aloud:

_(Delivered to the hand of the Inquisitor only)_

_The Lady of the Skies does not pick not a welp from the Lowlands as her champion. (He goes on about his Gods for quite a while and after much consideration, I have included that exact copy in the back. I have convinced him the Inquisitor only speaks Orlesian and as such, he is kindly allowing me to transcribe on his behalf). For your crimes against the Lady, your life is forfeit and with your death, the light on your hand will repair the sky (He blames us for the breach and presumes killing the Herald will fix everything)._

_Bring me the pretender (the Inquisitor or the herald, as he seems to use both interchangeably and with no noticeable acknowledgement to the fact that they are two separate women) who will face the might of the truth champion (presumably himself. Be aware that he is not the only Avvar to hold our Inquisition in a less than flattering light) and face the truth in a reckoning against the Hand of Korth (the Avvar chieftain's son and a skilled warrior. He has graciously allowed us to watch him spar with his people and I do not envy you for your task. Should you not accept to save us out of fear, I would not blame you)._

_Send forth an answer before the winds change (When is this exactly? He does not specify) or find their bodies rotting among the forgotten keep until the Gods grant mercy. (We're in Hargrove's Keep, it's on the map we have at the first camp, you can't miss the markings of the nightingale. It's filled with undead and a broken locking mechanism. Howl says it has a good amount of blue vitriol, but I can't recall why that's useful to share. If you do find our bodies rotting with the undead, do us the kindness of a burial)._

_Transcribed by S. R. Tock by order of the Hand of Korth._

Ophelia shivered, fear and worry creeping like vines up her back. She lifted a hand, the mark lighting up at her attention. "Do you think he is right?"

Josephine, as kind as Merrill and quiet throughout this, twitched on the spot, fixing Ophelia with a look. It wasn't her who spoke first, though. "Nonsense," Cullen said in a scoff. "Killing you would solve nothing, it would leave us with no way to fix things."

"Right. Yes. We should keep with what we know." She clenched her fingers closed, wincing at the way the mark tugged at her skin until it calmed.

Leliana frowned. "S.R is a code my people use. They are safe, but unable to mount a rescue on their own. Mark of the Nightingale is certainly something of ours, they must have information at this camp they want us to receive," she said, head tilting, holding out a hand for the letter. Hawke passed it over willingly. "Yes, this is very much his handwriting."

"Tock? We don't have a Tock though," Hawke said with a frown, peering over her shoulder.

"Not quite his real name, Inquisitor. Another code meaning one of them is wounded," she said bluntly. "We will have to act quickly, I do not recommend leaving our people there. No matter what our man said, it would look badly on the Inquisition."

"We could hardly leave them to die even if it did look good on the Inquisition. Aren't they your people?" Ophelia blurted out, shocked.

"Trevelyan, you are a terrible fighter. If we send you there, you'll die," Hawke said bluntly. Cullen shot her a look of exasperation and she waved it off.

Ophelia winced, but she didn't argue. "I know. We can't leave them there, though."

Hawke shook her head. "Of course not, I'm not about to abandon them." The collective sigh of relief in the room had her snorting. "Such faith my advisors have in me. Don't forget, you chose me to be the Inquisitor, I didn't volunteer. Anyway, I'm not leaving them behind, I just think we need a strategy that isn't 'fling Trevelyan at the avvar and hope for the best' because that's a terrible idea until we get you trained up. Cullen, that's where you come in."

"This will not be the only time we have such situations. The more power the Inquisition acquires, the more people will test our strength and the more spread thin we become. We'll need a more permanent solution, but the only way around this one is for the Herald to name a champion to fight on her behalf," he said, hand resting on the pommel of his sword, eyes resting on the map. With the room mostly empty aside from the four of them, Ophelia crept closer, peering down at a small section of land dubbed the Fallow Mire. The colors on the map for it didn't show promise for a kind land, though seldom were they in Ferelden she was discovering.

"Perfect. Trevelyan, name me your champion and we'll be off."

Josephine did cut it, head shaking. "The Inquisition looks weak to have you fight, Inquisitor."

"What?" Hawke said, annoyed. "Shouldn't it tell them we won't let a single person be harmed under our command without responding with our full might? I'm top of the tier, it doesn't send a better message."

"It tells them we need our full might to take on the tiniest of obstacles. We would lose much of the support we've gathered from those who believe in our strength, we must find someone who can go along as a representative of the Inquisition to show we will not allow it to happen in the future and that they should be grateful the Inquisitor herself hasn't shown up," Josephine declared, quill tapping. Leliana, though frowning, agreed with her.

"Why are nobles so finicky?" Hawke mumbled.

"It is the way of the world," Ophelia said, sharing a brief, uncomfortable look with Josephine as the only two nobles in the room.

"I should go then," Cullen said.

"It would send the same message, unfortunately. As would sending Lady Cassandra as the Herald's champion."

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. "Blackwall?"

"He and his team are still in the Hinterlands rooting out the remaining demons in the forests, they wouldn't return in time. We need someone in Haven who can leave now," Leliana said, thinking. "Perhaps Captain Rylen?"

"We'll need him to help with the recruits," he disagreed. "Ser Dara?"

Josephine shook her head. Ophelia rather thought Cullen's face would be stuck in a permanent frown at this rate. "Not important enough. He is an unranked person in the Inquisition and it sends the message that we do not care about our people enough."

"Maker's breath! Will they find fault with everyone we send?"

Ophelia shifted on the spot, a horrible thought occurring to her.

Hawke's hand slapped on the table once more and silenced the conversation. She fixed her eyes on Ophelia, grinning. "I know that look. You have an idea."

"He… is not part of the Inquisition, but if he was invited in, he would have prominence by virtue of being related to someone involved with the Inquisition," Ophelia said, biting her lip. "My brother is a skilled warrior, and he has been a templar for a long while. If I name him my champion, would it not solve the problem? As a Trevelyan, he carries weight enough to be prominent, but his titles aren't so high in the Inquisition, the templars, or my family to warrant any further commentary."

"You have a brother?" Hawke asked blankly.

Cullen sighed. "We had this conversation before the meeting, Inquisitor," he said quietly. Ophelia studied him, startled at the idea of her family coming up.

Hawke pursed her lips, eyes narrowing at a point over Cullen's shoulder for several seconds before the thought occurred. "Oh, him, the one with the nice smile. Well, can he fight?"

Ophelia shrugged. "This is the first time I've seen him since I was taken to the circle. You would likely have more experience with his skill, but if we bring the Seeker along, she would be helpful in training him up, wouldn't she?"

"Excellent! That's the plans then, any questions? Cullen?"

"I don't like it," he said, pinching his nose once more. "It leaves much up to chance."

"I said questions, not a comment."

"Then, no."

Hawke took it with good humor, but at once her expression morphed into something serious. "This is a good time to work on unity before we approach the breach, we don't have a second chance at this. Cullen, try to get through to the templars, I heard more murmurs of dissent than I would like."

"The mages, too," Leliana said reluctantly.

"Work on it. Start combining teams and make them work together. While you," she said, pointing at Ophelia, "are the Hinterlands, I'll take a few people up to the Storm Coast and meet the mercenary company, they've been stuck waiting long enough and I think an assassin running around the Inquisition is the perfect time to have an extra sight of eyes."

"Has there been any news?" Ophelia asked, flinching at the reminder, fingers reaching for the spot on her shoulder before she forced her hand down. The others gave her looks, sympathetic, even from the cold-eyed Leliana, but she steeled her spine.

"Some," Cullen said reluctantly after a long look with Leliana. "But nothing concrete, I am afraid, and it would be best to wait until we know more. Continue with your vigilance, tiring as it must be."

Hawke nodded. "Either way, we won't be having a repeat of that, your guards are going to be sticking a lot closer than they were before so I hope you're friendly with both of them."

…

…

Unfortunate as it was for their people to be stolen, Ophelia didn't mind the excuse to avoid a meeting with her father, scurrying past him without a comment in search of Alfonso. It was unlikely he noticed her, they hadn't seen each other since she was taken to the circle, she thought with some bitterness, nor had he taken the time to know her in the years since.

She hadn't thought of her family's unresponsiveness when she first sent the letter. Wary of the ever approaching Inquisition and a death threat hanging over her head, her camps changed by the night. There was little chance of a letter finding its way to her, but that was weeks ago. The Inquisition's capture of the mage who killed the divine spread like wildfire the moment she stepped foot in Haven again. Messages poured in from every corner of Thedas asking for her body on a cart to the nearest gallows. Her family knew - and still they said nothing.

A part of her - and this part was small, silly, and liable to get her killed someday - hoped they simply hadn't received the letter and she could pretend for a moment that it was a misunderstanding. She wasn't so naive, though. Not getting this letter didn't change the lack of any letters at all. Close or not, Ophelia thought they would want to know, and the lack of any questions made her think her name was no longer worth much.

Nobility disowned their children for less. Was their last kindness to her a break without words? Was it to allow them the grace of pretending she was simply off in a cloister, or her the benefit of wielding their name like a shield as she had done?

Ophelia feared the answers. Better to avoid them, better to let some small part of her hope, no matter the bravado she had flung at the Commander earlier at pretending otherwise.

She sought out her brother and found him, once more, in the midst of a story for which an audience watched with open-mouthed wonder as he reenacted a fight from Therinfal with gusto and help from a fellow templar. "Alfonso," she said stiffly, unwilling to linger in his presence when he was at his best, not when she recalled their childhood nights acting out stories with shadow puppets long after bedtime.

"The Inquisitor cleaved the demon in two and berated me for my lack of attention in battle, but I am afraid the rest of the story will have to wait until next time," Alfonso concluded with a half-bow to the templar who played a demon on behalf of his story. The crowd lingered in murmurs, and he approached her with a smile. He heaved his sword back into place on his back. "Well, you have the same knack for interrupting my stories that you did when we were younger. Did you need something, Phi?"

"That's not my name," she muttered, gesturing for him to follow her. They stepped around the side of the Chantry, feet crushing through the frozen underbrush to an alcove off to the side mostly shielded from view.

Alfonso shrugged carelessly. "I've called you that since you were three, why would I stop now?"

"You haven't called me that in ten years."

"Not from a lack of trying."

"Join the Inquisition," she said bluntly, ignoring him.

His smile didn't fall, but his finger twitched with the same nervous energy that hers did, a trait they picked up from their father and never managed to hide as he did. "What? I couldn't, I am a templar and bound to the Order."

Still? She thought, privately confused on how he would arrive with their father only to decide he was still a templar. Ophelia continued, determined. "You forget, the Inquisition recruited the templars. If you are still honor bound to the Order then you have no need to join, you are already one of our allies and therefore part of the Inquisition in some form."

"Why?"

"We need templars to close-"

"No, not that, I heard the speech the Inquisitor made to the templars, I support this alliance of hers. Why do I need to join the Inquisition? Earlier, you were less than pleased at the idea of speaking with father or I. I can't imagine why you want me to stay," he said, fingers still and his thoughts shrouded from view. Maybe he learned something from their father after all.

The unfairness of it clawed at her. While she sat inside the circle, learning how to control herself, he was free to jump between the Order and the comforts of home, knowing he would have honor either way. Her own life - her own honor - was lost when templars took her in arm and dragged her from the estate in Ostwick. Did he receive letters from home? Did they remind him to eat his vegetables and brush his teeth and play nice with the other templars?

She wasn't ashamed of being a mage, but she remembered those first awful months when the only thing she longed for more than to return home was the comfort of her father's strong hugs and her mother's calming words. A younger Ophelia thought with certainty they would find a way to rescue her.

It didn't matter. She was over it, she was- She wasn't doing this for them. The Trevelyan's were a means to give her child one gift: the same certainty she had as a kid. No matter how it ended, she could give them that much, and so long as they weren't a mage like her, maybe that certainty would never end.

Alfonso crossed his arms, prodding. "You can't expect me to stay for nothing, I can help the Inquisition far better from home, where someone can prod the rest of the Free Marches into remembering the true threat." His voice was strong, unwavering. Often cheerful, but never weak. Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed, the ever perfect Trevelyan, one who would no more inherit titles than her, but they would still regard him. Still include him. Still remember-

No, she was over this. She wouldn't be goaded, she was stronger than this.

"No comment? I didn't recall my sister becoming a mouse, not unless she picked up shapeshifting while my back was turned."

Her thread of patience snapped, anger rolling over her with all the strength of an avalanche. "What do you know of me?" she snapped. "Absolutely nothing, that's what. Whatever we were before, I don't see how you think we're family now."

He flinched at the venom in her words, and it only served to anger her further to see his smile was still in place, only slightly quivering. It should hurt, she _wanted_ it to hurt. "We're still family," he said.

"You think you can appear in my life again for the first time in ten years and think we'll just go back to, what, kids in the orchid? We'll forget that I'm a mage? We'll forget that none of you gave a single damn about me? You can't just smile and laugh things back to normal, it's too late for that."

"I'm not trying to make things go back to normal!"

"Brushing it under the rug isn't any better," she cried. "You think I'll just forget how little you all cared about me? I spent a decade in the circle and the only letters I have were from distant relatives trying to figure out the family tree, or trying to find out how I hid my magic for so long, or how I could dishonor them so horribly." Her nails dug into her palms, lips quivering with the effort to hold back the tide. Mages who didn't control themselves disappeared, and she would not be one of them. She wouldn't, she wouldn't- and still the words came. "Nothing from mother or father. Nothing from Catalina, nothing from Gideon, nothing from _you_. Like I was some curse on the family name meant to be forgotten."

"Phi-"

Her voice rose in a shout. "Stop calling me that!" All the people who called her Phi with love, with tenderness, with a silent promise to always be there for her had left her behind. "I never asked for this family to love me still when I ended up being a mage, even if they should have. I never asked them to respond to my letters, _even if they should have_. The only thing I asked of them was to find my child and make sure they were safe or happy and did anyone have the decency to respond? Did my only request matter to any of you? Unless you have answers for me about my child, we have no business speaking of each other like family!"

"Ophelia, then," he said, stricken. She didn't notice when the cheeriness fled from his face, dark cheeks almost pale under the onslaught of her words. It angered her further to not know what part of her accusations hit the mark. "I didn't intend for this. Father forbade us from-"

She laughed hysterically. "Oh, don't tell me, _you're_ afraid of the forbidden? What a luxury it must have been to be afraid of a slap on the wrist!"

He was afraid to send letters because of their father, what a difference in their worlds. Of all her brothers, a distant part of her had hoped Alfonso would have understood, if not for their closeness in age then his years serving in the circles. The hope tasted like ash on her tongue. All the injustices of the world were piling themselves in her chest, trying to break free.

"What's going on here?"

Her anger died, doused with water in the form of Cullen's appearance. It was one thing to scream and rage at the templar who was once her brother, and another to do so in front of the templar turned Commander. Her friend, he said, and yet he could hardly meet her eyes earlier. Even now his eyes were focused more on Alfonso than herself, only dipping back to her once and then away.

Perhaps he knew, perhaps he heard. She hadn't thought of prying ears.

Her face ducked and she swiped at the angry tears on her face, unaware of when they had fallen and annoyed that her body had so thoroughly betrayed her. The pause was too long, too awkward, and no one spoke. Ophelia cleared her throat and then said blandly, voice steady, "Just a disagreement, Commander."

"Just a family matter," Alfonso agreed. "Pardon the interruption."

Cullen looked between them, disbelief evident in the furrow of his brows, looking uncomfortable to have stumbled upon a family dispute.

"Some of our agents were captured in the Fallow Mire. For political reasons I'm sure you can grasp without me explaining them, we're in need of someone to act as my champion and fight the Avvar who captured them, and what better person than you, a templar and a Trevelyan," she said, wishing she could take back the plan, wishing she had bitten off her tongue in the war room. If he accepted, it would mean around two weeks in his company.

She vowed to ask for Varric and Cassandra to come along who bickered enough of the time to keep the air either awkward or occupied. A nightmare any other time, but a mercy now.

His hands were clasped behind his back, and the only sign that their argument lingered with him was the twitch in his jaw as he attempted to smile. "The Fallow Mire? I am not familiar with Ferelden, I'm afraid, many of the names and places sound the same."

Ophelia looked to Cullen in question, equally unsure of the area, and looking forward for an excuse to not talk for several seconds. This time, Cullen did meet her eyes, seeming to read the look on her face and come to some internal conclusion. It steadied him, and he nodded his head in a brisk matter.

Sounding more like himself and as though he were speaking to his soldiers, he said, "We have scouts who will be able to give you a more thorough lay of the land when you arrive, we have little of it charted, but it's a marsh in southern Ferelden about four days by horse from here. I will not lie to you: we have not heard anything good from the Fallow Mire in our reports."

She expected Alfonso to weigh his answer, debating the merits of risking his life for people he had never met on behalf of the mage who was once his sister. A niggle of guilt hit her - not for the argument, but for the lives she risked by not stuffing it into the corner of her mind for another time.

He didn't, there was only a half moment pause between Cullen's words and his agreement. His head bowed. "I will gladly help," he said. "I am not the type to leave someone behind if I have the power to help them. I will inform my father and prepare for departure."

His eyes lingered on her, but her expression remained blank. One more nod and an instinctive salute to Cullen before he turned on his heels. She scowled at his back as he walked away. No matter what he said, it didn't change anything. The harsh words were a reminder, one she had almost forgotten.

Unwilling to face Cullen, not when he was so skilled at reading her face, she ducked her head and left, leaving him standing in the shadows of the Chantry. He didn't follow her, but she could feel his gaze on her retreating back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments and discussions with me! If you didn't know, you could find me on tumblr under the same name! Slightly nervous about what you all think of this chapter, we see a lot of emotions from Ophelia and not a lot of Cullen at all, but I really had some notes I wanted to hit on this chapter. 
> 
> We've seen a lot of anger from Ophelia when it comes to her family, but it all derives from various hurts over the years, ones she has tried NOT to see or examine. I've always tried to explore the duality of emotions with Ophelia. Her opinions on the circle, her opinions on her family, her opinions on her status of a mage -- all of it is written from her worldviews, her experiences, her thoughts and feelings. I wanted the chance to dabble into questioning the circle while also being torn on some of the good experiences of it (like being one of the many rather than all alone which is a powerful motivator). I wanted the chance to talk about her family and how her feelings for them are just a big ball of hurt, anger, and love. 
> 
> For those of you going "Miranda, when are we getting to Skyhold" then, first of all, how did you learn my name. Hold on otherwise, we're still a couple chapters away and we would be much closer if this chapter didn't end up so long and require the Fallow Mire to go on its own in the next chapter! Tune in next Tuesday for another letters chapter! ♥


	11. Keep Me In Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition saves their agents in the Fallow Mire - and the letters between them tell a story on their own.

Alfonso wasn’t the type to sway minds in any active way. Oftentimes if he acted like himself then things worked out - and if they didn’t, he believed they weren’t meant to anyway. He didn’t regret this mindset often, but the trek to the Fallow Mire was one time where he did. Sandwiched between Varric and the mage, Vivienne, while Ophelia and Cassandra took up the lead meant he had little time to talk with his sister on the go. When night came, he managed only a word or two before she walked away without a comment or struck up a conversation with Vivienne. 

It was dreadful. He wanted to shake her shoulders and explain everything, but it seemed a pointless endeavor. When morning dawned, bright and chilly, she flinched at the sight of him as if she had forgotten he was there and hoped it was all a bad dream. If she wouldn’t talk to him face to face, then the next solution was obvious.

He would communicate with her in the medium she understood best: writing. Trouble was he didn’t have any talent for writing, it was much different than the stories he managed to convey to others, where he could convey his meaning directly. Writing was a beast he had never tamed, and it stumped him. 

Their third night in camp, Alfonso waited for the ladies to depart before settling down in front of the fire with a piece of vellum resting on his thigh and his back pressed against a log. His eyes flickered to the tent where his sister rested and when the only sounds to slip from the tent were snores, he shifted his back to the vellum.

What could he say? He missed her, he wished things were different, he wished he understood a long time ago that what he knew about mages was entirely wrong? Nothing seemed right. He crossed out the beginning of his line to start over again. 

“I would not wish to continue this… may we speak… this is...” he mumbled, squinting at what he had written so far. His penmanship hadn’t improved in his time with the templars, no longer the flowing script the rest of their family seemed to master. It required him writing carefully to get anything legible, his skills not so much to be decent. He wanted to leave no room for doubts, but he rather thought she would speak to him if only to lecture him on the tiny, square letters. 

“What are you writing?” 

“Andraste’s purple knickers!” 

The quill snapped in half, and he slapped a hand over his letter.

Guilty eyes darted to the tent, but it wasn’t his sister poking her head out. A relief, too, given the voice was far too deep to belong to Ophelia. It was the dwarf with a crossbow he remembered vaguely as Varric. Familiar, but where? “You are a rogue to be feared, sneaking up on a templar without alerting him is a feat I rarely see.” An exaggeration, but only a slight one, and the dwarf’s lips twitched as he said it so Alfonso counted it as a victory.

“You’re so much like Shiver that I’m amazed no one knew you were related in Therinfal,” Varric said with amusement, settling near the fire with his hands held out to the flames. He eyed the broken quill as Alfonso tossed it aside, and Varric procured another from his bag, twirling it between his fingers. “I only have a few of these, I might be willing to let you borrow it.” 

He eyed the quill. “Hang on! Shiver? Is that your nickname for Phi?” 

“She doesn’t like the cold and I noticed the finger thing. Twitchy was my first thought, but not a witty nickname and terrible for someone in her situation,” he explained with a shrug, looking a little putout that it wasn’t obvious. He held the quill out of reach, and ignored Alfonso’s straining for it. “Last thing we need is someone hearing the name and we’ve got another assassination attempt on our hands. 

Alfonso stilled. “Assassination attempt?” 

“Either she’s the most wanted criminal in Thedas, or she’s helping lead an army of the faithful, you’re bound to make some enemies.” 

“I didn’t hear anything about this. Surely they would have been prepared for something like this, do they have no one protecting her?” 

“Sure they do. Scrawny templar duelist, and bearded archer,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers. Alfonso wasn’t any more familiar with the people guarding his sister than he was with the layout of Ferelden.

Patiently, he asked, “Then how did she almost get assassinated?” 

“Same way everyone else does: someone found a moment and they took it.”

“Is she alright?” 

“Doesn’t look like she’s falling to pieces, so I’d say she’s still kicking. Wouldn’t know personally, she spends more time with Curly and his soldiers than she does with anyone, I only know her by virtue of traveling with her a lot and sitting around a fire long enough to catch her when she’s cold,” he said, shrugging, scratching his face. It wasn’t helpful, and Alfonso glanced once more at the tent. “If you are so worried about her, you could ask her.”

Alfonso laughed. “My sister and I aren’t close, I think I will have to wait until we are dying against this Avvar before I will get a word in.” 

“Hence the writing?” Varric said, eyes flickering to the mess of scratched out attempts at writing something decent. Alfonso covered it with his hands once more. “Need help?” 

A thought occurred to Alfonso and he spun around, holding the letter to his chest. “You are Varric Tethras, that is where I remember you. You wrote the Tale of the Champion, my mother would be thrilled if she knew Phi made friends with you enough to be honored with a name, she’s a big fan of your books. I, myself, must reserve judgment until I ask you a question.” 

“Glad you think so highly of me. Most people have questions, let’s hear it.” Varric watched him warily. 

“You didn’t mention any of the Starkhaven templars by name in your… tale. My family does not seem to believe I was in Kirkwall when all of this started, they think I am lying about what I have seen, but I assure you, I saw the aftermath of the devastation. I saw what mages and templars are capable of when they war against each other,” he said, shifting back, seeing the curious tilt of Varric’s brows and knowing he caught him. “I am either the sort of man who lies often enough to be untrustworthy, or I am a man who is prone to exaggeration, but neither of those options paints me as a man telling the truth. One is malicious, one is idiotic.” 

“Not hearing a question in this.” 

Alfonso shrugged. “We will get there! I will admit to my fear of mages - and everything to happen with the Ferelden circle and the Kirkwall circle were proof of that fear. Until I read your book and I saw what you wrote: mages risking their lives to help each other, mages pushed to an edge and seeing no solution, mages suffering,” he said, slowly, thoughts forming and falling from his tongue faster than he could properly process them. This is why he spoke rather than wrote: he could not think ahead of time, not without his mind twisting in useless circles. 

Unimpressed, but resigned to the conversation, Varric raised a brow. “Didn’t paint the mages in all that stellar of a light.”

Alfonso grimaced, lowering his gaze to the smeared letter. The ink left a blot on his shirt, and the letters fused together to form a blob of useless words. “No, you didn’t, but I was too blinded by what I was taught that I was willing to keep my eyes closed. You didn’t allow ignorance in your writing. I am butchering this, perhaps I should have written it.”

“Can’t say you were doing too well writing it either,” he remarked. 

Varric was right, but did he have to say it? He sighed, scratching the scruff growing on his face. “When Phi was taken to the circles, I was told to let her go, that speaking with her would only make this harder on all of us. Seeing the mages weep when they received letters made me all the more eager to avoid inflicting pain on her. I thought to myself, ‘What kind of big brother makes his sister cry?’ Now I worry if I feared hurting her, or if I feared that I would only see mage where I once saw a sister. I am a fool and a liar as my siblings no doubt think - and I have no question for you. Count it as one of my lies.” 

“Not a very good liar if you’re telling me,” Varric pointed out, earning a shrug in response. “I’m all for telling the story your audience wants to hear.” 

“I don’t want to lie to her. I just don’t know what to say!” he protested. 

Varric sighed, looking much older for a breath before his easy smile slid into place. He held the quill out. “Well if you don’t want to lie, the answer is obvious.” 

Alfonso accepted it thankfully, but no less lost for words than he was before. 

“You’d think Kirkwall would have been closer to Ostwick than Starkhaven,” Varric said abruptly.

“It is, but they don’t let families stay in the same circles. Phi went to Oswitck, and we had a cousin in Kirkwall, so when I was officially dedicated to the order, I was sent to Starkhaven. Strange choice given my great-uncle was the Knight-Commander there. I’d say he had more power over me than I would have over Phi, but these things never make sense, do they? Shame, I would have liked to meet the Champion.”

“Doesn’t really go by the name anymore.” 

“No? Why not?”

“Inquisitor is a nicer title, but I’m partial to Champion, too, I have tried to convince her to use both.”

“... the Inquisitor is the Champion? And I did not meet her? I have always wanted to ask her about the Bone Pit and I’ve missed my opportunity now,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I must write this letter. There is no other way to stay with the Inquisition without making things difficult.” 

“...You want to stay with the Inquisition to question the Inquisitor?” 

“Well, one of the reasons, I already planned to stay, you’ve just given me more incentive. I’ve always wanted to see a dragon in person, did you truly fight one? No, wait, you must tell me another time, I must focus. Tell me, what do you know of my sister?” 

Perhaps used to this type of abrupt conversation change, Varric didn’t miss a beat. “Horrid fighter. There’s a reason she needs a champion, but I get the feeling this isn’t working out the way you hoped,” Varric said, peering at the letter, frowning at the messy remains of it that Alfonso allowed him to glimpse. If Varric could read anything of it, he didn’t say.

“I had hoped for a chance to speak with her.”

“I had to speak to her for a great while before I received a response back,” Varric warned him. 

“Yes, that’s why I thought a letter might be better. Less chance of messing it up like I did during Great Aunt Lucille’s Summer Ball twelve years ago - do not ask, I will take the secrets of this disaster to my grave,” he warned with a grin, seeing the look on Varric’s face. “But I am afraid I do not have the words. There is a lot to tell her and not nearly enough vellum to do it justice.” 

“Seems like you have a lot of problems. Start smaller, fix the pebbles before you try to move the boulders.” 

“Ah? Oh, I think most of this is a boulder. I do not know how to write to her.” 

“It’s your sister, surely you’ve written her a single letter.”

“Er…” His smile slipped, and he ran a hand through his hair. “I did once before. If everything in Kirkwall happened as you say, I would not be surprised if the letter never reached her, I am not sure what stance Ostwick took with everything. It wasn’t long after she went to the circle, and I remembered missing her dreadfully. We are the youngest, you see, and the closest in age. Gideon, Catalina, they were ten years our seniors and they did not have time for brats running around their ankles.”

“How did your family end up with names like Ophelia, Gideon, Catalina, and Alfonso?” 

“My mother’s family is from Rivain, and she wanted to honor her roots, but my father’s family has been born and raised in Ostwick for decades so he wished to honor his names. They decided each would name one boy and one girl - I am not sure what they would have done if there was a fifth one of us, in truth, we probably would have ended up with a mixture,” he mused. “But, as I was saying, we were quite alike. I was scrawny back then and people would mistake us for twins, so you can imagine I missed her dreadfully. Oh, I lied again, I wrote her two letters: once in the circle to which I never received a reply, and once at home. My father ripped it to pieces.” 

Varric didn’t reply, his eyes narrowed. 

“He thought a letter would distract her from her duties, that it would make life harder for her than it needed to be. I do not think my father pushed her away out of… malice, I do think he wanted what was best for Phi,” he said, sighing. He lowered his voice, worried, no longer looking at Varric but staring down at the letter bearing little more than her name. “I am not sure what changed, only that a couple months after she left, he changed his mind. I… Well, I think it has something to do with the circle in Ferelden. We had an aunt there, you see, another mage who died in the uprising in the circle. Perhaps he thought the way I did: Phi was more mage than Phi.” 

“What do you think?” 

“Me? For a time, I believed what I was told, but now I think I am a fool and she is still Phi. And now she no longer has to hide her carrots on my plate, she can simply make them disappear.” 

“Start there, then, Champ, you’ve got too much shit going on to handle all of it in a letter,” Varric said, dropping a hand on his shoulder. “Some things take a long while to light.” 

“You did not get the chance to regale me with stories of your youth and foster a better friendship between us,” Alfonso said as Varric stood up to leave. 

“Next time, Champ.”

“Is Champ my nickname?”

“We’ll see, it depends on if you survive the Fallow Mire or not.”

…

…

Commander,

~~Can I send him back~~

~~Do I really need him~~

~~What can I~~

Are we sure I do not have the skills to take on the Hand of Korth on my own? Is a champion necessary for our success? I am asking for the sake of a friend, of course, because I am sure Cassandra will fling Alfonso into the marsh before long. This place has a way of riling up our tempers and the Seeker seems at odds with everyone except myself and Madame de Fer. I am unsurprised given the state of the Fallow Mire ~~, the fact that anyone lived here prior to the outbreak is shocking .~~

Is there a single place in Ferelden habitable for living? I have yet to find a place that isn’t filled with undead, a shocking influx of bandits for such a small area, a genuine horde of spiders, or murderous bears. We lost much of the time we gained from breakneck travels by promptly getting lost even with the help of Harding’s handy map and we made camp near the only landmark we could find - only to discover it was a beacon of some sort the likes of which I have never seen. The light hitting it caused a minor reaction. Veilfire somehow summoned the nearby lesser terror demons. We were lucky camp was not yet ready for we fought and packed it up swiftly. Some injuries, but minor ones we were able to patch up with little difficulty. Madame de Fer is instructing me on healing magic! 

Madame de Fer and I examined it for several hours, I have included doodles of the rune carved into it (unpowered, I assure you) with the request that someone look into it. Madame de Fer thinks it would be unwise for others to find out about it and the sooner we know how to counteract it, the better. 

Did I mention there’s undead everywhere? If you so much as touch the water - in a marsh - then the undead will latch onto you and drag you under in a heartbeat. I discovered this the hard way when a rotted bridge gave out beneath me when we were fighting a demon the beacon summoned. I did not think I would use your lessons so quickly, but I punched it and it worked! It actually worked! 

~~My clothes will never be the same and I fear I will run out of robes before I return to Haven.~~

Ophelia Trevelyan

…

…

Lady Trevelyan, 

We will resume training when you return so a champion might not be as necessary in the future, but I would advise sticking with him until then. ~~I do not wish to see you harmed.~~ Have there been any troubles otherwise?

It’s unfortunate you’ve only been able to see my country ~~(is it still mine if I haven’t been here in ten years?)~~ through circumstances both dire and unusual. We have issues as any other country, and the vast majority of it is recovering from the blight which has caused havoc to many rural areas (Lothering is still uninhabited from what I recall and Honnleath has long been deserted, too), but there are places in it that people live without so many issues. 

I have passed your runes along to Bethany in hopes of finding more suitable answers and if we receive anything before you return, we will pass it along. Be wary of approaching these, anything that can summon demons with only a little light as you say will certainly be more dangerous than the undead. Speaking of which: I am relieved the lessons bore fruit and I would recommend trying some of Cassandra’s training regime in your down time, it will greatly improve your strength. Do not be disappointed if you last not even a quarter of the time she does, she has been training the vast majority of her life and I believe she sleeps with a sword in her hand. Please do not tell her I said as much. 

Please do not die in the marsh, either. I fear that would be bad for your health - and also morale would be greatly lowered and I have no wish to buy another round of ale for the tavern as I did the other night. 

Commander Cullen 

...

...

Ser Trevelyan,

Why did you send ~~the prisoner~~ the Herald a letter? Our detour to collect specimens for a cure took little more than an evening and such chatter could wait until our return. Unfortunately, she only read what I assume was a few lines before tossing it into the marsh. 

Cassandra 

…

…

Lady Pentaghast, 

You question me on the reasons for sending a letter when you were soon returning… by sending me a letter while we are in camp at the same moment? Very unusual method, but I will not protest it. Phi loves writing and reading, I thought this would be the easiest way to speak with her. You might have guessed from the awkward silence, but we are not so close anymore. I will keep trying, please give her this attached letter when you see her next. 

Alfonso

…

…

Champ,

I found your letter attached to one of my bolts with the instruction to feed it to a demon. Starting to think your method isn’t going to work.

Varric

…

…

Commander,

Please disregard the chattiness of my letter. A more professional report is attached to the back, but I am incapable of writing small it seems. If you are sure Alfonso is a necessity for our success, I shall endeavor to… work with him. Since this letter is already unprofessional, I suppose I am allowed to say this isn’t the way I thought a reunion with family would go. I had given up on the notion of seeing them again. 

But that is, perhaps, too much to put into a letter and not something you care to read, my apologies. 

I have never heard of Honnleath, but I recall mentions of Lothering when refugees from the blight ended up in Ostwick. It was hit fairly early during the blight, was it not? I think I recall Tilda saying she was born and raised there, but I do not recall with any certainty, her tales are often as outrageous as Varric’s. Have they told you the one of her fighting a darkspawn magister? It was quite fascinating, but I could hardly believe it. Either way, I find myself relieved to have been spared time with the blight hanging over my head. Is it insensitive to ask if the blight or the breach is a worse threat of the people who suffered under both? I think it is, I will have to hold my tongue. 

There were more of the beacons on the way to the fort (the castle? I fear I need to look into the differences for some of these, I never did think it would be necessary to know while I was in the circle which was little more than a stone tower). You were right, they are more dangerous than the undead, one brought three terrors on our heads. I learned today why Madame de Fer should be awed: she took on all three on her own, dispatched one, and nearly rid us of the other one before Cassandra and Varric were done with the undead who sprang on us from the water. It’s a shame she is unfamiliar with storm magics for I would greatly enjoy tutoring under her. 

I did try to work with Cassandra. How she doesn’t break under the rigorous workout on top of her battles is one of life’s great mysteries -- and Varric seems to enjoy making some of them up and then telling her. A braver man I’ve never met. As is, I thought they would come to blows recently when Cassandra asked how he did anything when he could hardly silence his tongue and he said something too inappropriate to include in semi-official correspondence. Varric requests that no one tell Tilda about this, but I leave that up to you all. 

Ophelia Trevelyan 

…

…

Lady Trevelyan, 

I quite enjoy your letters. I do not mind listening. Your letters are no hardship to read, I have enjoyed the recount of your adventures, they are far more detailed than what any of us are accustomed to from the Inquisitor’s strike team (as is, we know little of what she’s doing on the Storm Coast and only know of her being alive through missive from scouts who cross her path). I am not sure I can offer words of comfort. I fear I am guilty of not speaking with siblings often and a reunion with them is greatly overdue. I can only imagine my sister’s reaction when we meet again will make this Elder One quake in fear. 

Honnleath is a very small village of mostly farmland, it is unlikely you would have found mention of it on many of the maps, whereas Lothering was a well-known crossroads in Ferelden prior to the blight. I cannot say which is a worse threat, but I did not spend time facing the blight itself the way we do the breach. 

I am unsurprised at your account of Madame de Fer’s skills. Her familiarity with magic in general would be a welcome help to you, but if you request assistance in looking for a storm attuned mage, the Inquisitor will surely allow us to look into it. ~~Cassandra’s face must I will be sure to pass the I would not miss the opportunity to~~ As her advisor, I am obligated to report on everything happening relevant to her, including possible friction between her companions, so I have made sure she received the information with haste and I will keep you informed on her reply. 

~~How are~~

~~Are things with~~

~~Is Alfonso~~

The team you have with you is a strong one. I have hopes the Fallow Mire is not giving you any trouble on top of everything else you are currently balancing. 

Commander Cullen

...

…

Commander,

You are not required to call me Lady Trevelyan, Ophelia works and I am not so sure how much longer I will be a Trevleyan. I am sure my father was talkative about things while I’ve been gone, I apologize for leaving him for you and the others to handle, though I find myself relieved to have avoided him for a while longer. Is he still there? ~~If so, I might fling myself into a few more marshes to delay my inevitable return - after we save the Inquisition agents, of course~~ ~~.~~ But I digress. I am sure your siblings understand the importance of your work, they will simply be happy you are alive. 

For a town that isn’t on any maps, you are remarkably familiar with Honnleath. ~~Is there a sweetheart waiting for you there~~ ~~?~~ Do you have loved ones there? 

Perhaps after the breach is closed I might ask her to look into it, but I fear we are too busy and I have no wish to pull Inquisition resources from the greater threat. Still, I have to admit, facing the breach with only my current level of knowledge is a great deal more nerve-wracking than I thought it would be. I paid too much attention to the theoretical, I fear, and Senior-Enchanter Lydia did always tell me it would be my downfall. Let’s hope she was wrong about that final bit. 

I hid this letter from Varric before he could read it so your secret is safe with me! 

The Fallow Mire is nothing unusual. In comparison to the Hinterlands, it’s almost peaceful. The more undead we clean out, the more I see how people might have found some of it charming, even if I will never be free of mud at this rate. 

In two days, we’re meeting this Avvar. The only other one I’ve met is the man Skywatcher (I included information about him in my last letter, he seemed sympathetic to the Inquisition’s aims and unamused at this Korth’s man choices. I believe he called him a small puppy which I hope bodes well for us. 

Keep me in mind, 

Ophelia 

…

…

Ser Trevelyan, 

Your letter was tossed into the water again. Your attempts are admirable, but they seem futile. Perhaps time is the best solution. 

Cassandra

…

…

Ophelia, 

If I am to call you Ophelia, then it is only fair that you call me Cullen. Your father was not pleased to find you and your brother left on a mission with such short notice, but it was nothing Josephine could not smooth over and he returned home the day after you left with an escort. You will be able to avoid him a while longer. He did have much to say, but I will not bother you with them, they were nothing that we could not handle for you and no news to share. You have enough to deal with as is. 

I am afraid I haven’t sent a letter to them since I first arrived in Ferelden with the Inquisition. I have the beginnings of a letter, but I am not so sure I know how to explain things to them. Some words fall woefully short, and I am not quite the person they remember. When we close the breach, I will send it. I try not to imagine what will happen if we fail. You know already, as I do. Has your sleep improved any with your time on the road? Traveling has been both a benefit and a hindrance to my rest personally and I have hopes it is more the former than the letter for you. 

I can only hope the Avvar you face was a puppy sort, but I do not believe so. It will be too late to wish you luck, but I wish it to you nonetheless. ~~Return to us safely.~~ I wish you luck. 

Cullen

…

...

Cullen,

Inquisition agents secure. All are sick or injured, we’ll be escorting them back to camps with us until we are free of the Fallow Mire and then we will make haste back to Haven. 

Korth was not a small puppy at all, if you were wondering. I have never seen a man larger in my life and if you recall my brother in Haven, you will know my family is particularly tall (I, myself, seem to have skipped this genetic quirk and given the gift of magic instead). 

He tried to ambush us with his people and he would have succeeded if Varric hadn’t noticed them sneaking up on us. I only have minor injuries, same as Vivienne and Cassandra, but unfortunately Varric was injured trying to defend us. We managed to reset the bone he broke with little issue, but it seems like he’ll have a limp for the next few weeks. He and Cassandra have been positively civil with each other now, she even offered to let him borrow a book while we were hunting a crazed apostate. 

But, in truth, I cannot tease them about it because my brother was injured in the fighting. I suppose for how angry I am with him, it didn’t occur to me how risky this was. I thought he was dead until Vivenne told me otherwise. I am not sure what to do. On one hand, he did not write to me once in the last decade and only now does he seek me out. On the other, he came into this horrid marsh because I asked him to do it. I do not know what to do. 

On a lighter note, we no longer have Korth as an enemy and we also have a nice, empty fort (Varric told me the difference) as a base if you can ignore the plague, the undead loitering outside the fences, and the general state of ruin. Please do not take this as a fort, we cannot send more people to this marsh. ~~If I have to come back here again, I might scream.~~

We’ve recruited Skywatcher as an agent, I was right when I thought he was sympathetic to us. He believes we’re doing the work of his Lady and he believes himself chosen to help heal the wounds in her skin. I am not sure what this meant entirely, but I assume it is part of his culture and a reference to the breach. I am assuming your luck is the reason I got through this, so I thank you for your help. 

Ophelia 

…

…

Ophelia,

We will send a healer to the first Inquisition camp outside of the Fallow Mires to help their recovery before we bring them back to Haven if they wish to return. There is talk of more bandits along the road than usual, please warn the others to keep an eye out and ensure your group returns safely.

I am relieved ~~that you~~ that everyone made it through this encounter without a loss of life or limb (and I am assuming you would have mentioned if either of these were the case). Your brother looked to be a strong sort, and I recall him from his time in Kirkwall, he helped a great many people and survived a great many more who did not like the sight of another templar in the city, and he will recover. I fear I don’t have advice for you in this regard, but as someone who regrets the way he’s handled his relationship with siblings over the last decade, too, perhaps it does not hurt to hear him out. If the answers are not satisfactory, at least you will no longer have the question holding over your head. 

I will be sure to pass along your sentiment to the Inquisitor. I do not believe we need any agents in the Fallow Mire given its current status of undead filled. 

I do believe the agents that the Inquisitor recruited from the Storm Coast while you were in the Fallow Mire will greatly dwarf your Skywatcher friend. I have met a great many Qunari, but none so large as the Iron Bull. No, please do not tell Varric any of this, I can only imagine how he would take some of it.

Commander Cullen

…

…

Shiver, 

Your brother wanted me to give you this letter. I held off on it because we were running low on vellum and he would spend a few hours drafting another one if I gave it right away, but he’s asking questions and I keep all my lying skills in this limping leg so I’m fresh out of distractions. I also happened to read it and think you should, too. 

Varric

…

... 

Varric, 

Why are you reading other people’s letters?

Cassandra 

…

…

Seeker, 

Why are you? 

Varric

…

…

Seeker,

Stop scowling at me, you know I won this time. You owe me a drink. 

Varric

…

…

Varric,

Ugh. One drink. The Herald needs to read the letter, her brother is growing insufferable, I do not know if I can live through another rendition of his fight against the Avvar. Do you think he has forgotten that I was there, too?

Cassandra

…

…

Seeker,

How could we forget? I didn’t know Right Hand of the Divine was capable of swearing with such blasphemy. 

Varric

…

…

Cassandra and/or Varric, whomever reaches this note first: 

Has Phi read it yet? Also which title will you be using in the book you write on my life, Varric? Champion of the Herald, or the Herald’s Champion, or the Champion of the Fallow Mire, or some other concoction? Thank you, I must know which to send home to my mother and father. 

Alfonso 

…

…

Varric,

Do not put me in your book. And the Herald has read the letter, please stop Ser Trevelyan from sending us notes, she is currently drafting a response. 

Cassandra

…

…

Cassandra, 

Is there a reason we haven’t heard any word from anyone in several days? Even the scouts from your area are quiet. If the bandits were trouble, we can send troops to assist. 

Cullen

…

…

Curly, 

No issues with the bandits. Shiver is handling family problems and we will be in Haven with less baggage than before after this! 

Varric

…

…

Varric,

Maker, you make it sound like she left him the swamp. And why are you reading Cassandra’s letters? This could be something of a personal nature for either of us. 

Cullen

…

…

Cullen, 

He has grown bored in our traveling. Rest assured, he will not make that mistake again. We are well, we should be approaching Haven in two days if the weather treats us well.

Cassandra

…

....

Cassandra,

I hope you did not dump Varric into the marsh either. 

Cullen

…

…

Phi, 

~~Will you~~

~~I cannot bear to fight~~

I have a lot to tell you and not enough room to fit it all in. 

Father wasn’t pleased when I told him about my decision. But I told him I was better suited here watching your back than sitting at home having tea and pretending I’m enjoying the confines of the manor. He seems to think everyone would like a life of doing nothing, but I always thought I wanted to do something more. This is my chance! So we’ll be seeing each other more often for the foreseeable future. It’s been years, I hope ~~things can go back to normal~~ ~~\--~~ you actually eat your carrots this time instead of dumping them on other people’s plates! 

You did not ask, but I will tell you why I wasn’t with the templars in Therinfal. In truth, once the circles were dissolved, I had this silly idea to go find you. I had been young when you were taken. Even if I had felt like an adult at the time. I had believed father when he said our presence would just make your life harder. For what it’s worth, I think he believed it, too. 

I know now that isn’t the case. You needed family, and we weren’t there, and I cannot apologize enough for that. I have so many letters to you I never sent, fearing that you were happier without this reminder. You must have felt so different from the rest of us, hiding your magic all those years, and I did not want to remind you of it. Stupid, isn’t it? I sent you letters the moment I became a full templar, but I fear the order does not think highly of us talking with family, or talking with mages, and I can imagine those letters never came to you. 

I quite liked our family when it was whole and put together, and the circles dissolving seemed like an excellent chance to fix things. I went home to see if I could persuade father to put resources into it and then what do we hear but the Divine is holding a Conclave and the Ostwick Circle is accepting with their surviving mages! I made haste there and missed it. A good thing, too, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation, but at the time, I thought you had died in the blast. It was horrible, I never want to experience that again. I returned home after the breach was closed, never imagining that it was my sister who did it. 

I’m sorry about your letter. Mother and I tried to convince him to do it, but he was stubborn and refused to believe it until he caught sight of you. Please do not get your hopes up, though, I fear he isn’t anymore inclined to honoring it than he was before knowing. When you return, perhaps we will discuss alternatives! ~~You aren’t alone.~~ I should quite like to meet this niece or nephew of mine! 

Everything in Ferelden seems designed to hurt you in one way or another - it’s fascinating! - so I hope we don’t die in the Fallow Mire. If you do, please come back as the undead so we might have a discussion on it. If I do, please summon me back from the undead so I might tell you what I learned. 

Your brother

Alfonso 

…

…

Alfonso, 

~~I cannot handle this on top of everything else, but rest assured that I do not want to see you dead either.~~

~~Your battle with the Hand of Korth was… horrific to witness and I could not bear to imagine you dead with these ill-feelings between us.~~

~~If this is how it felt when you thought I died in the breach then maybe I can understand your sudden want to reconcile with me.~~

I have no wish to abandon my friends in the Inquisition. Strange, isn’t it, that I’ve become friends with the people who hold my prisoner? I do not feel like one, short of small moments of discomfort whenever certain people look my way and I realize what it is they think I’ve done and what it is that awaits me when this is all over. 

If I did wish to leave them, it would be for naught. This mark on my hand means I am duty bound to stay with them and finish this, I have already seen what happens if we don’t and I have no wish to inflict that horrible future upon the world. Nor do I wish my child to live in a world like this: where we are torn apart for the simple act of being born with magic. The only way to fix both of these things is with the Inquisition so if father has decided to simply not honor my request and I find myself at the loss of a name, I will have a place to go. 

Which is a long way of saying you are not obligated to stay. You could have died in the Fallow Mire, and I would not have had the chance to tell you about the few things I did see over the years. If you are staying for me - to make amends with me - then I release you from that. I cannot promise all will go back to normal, I am not sure what normal is anymore and I am certainly not the same sister you remember, but I will try. 

When the breach closes, we will talk more. 

Ophelia

…

…

Cullen,

I wrote to him, I hope you were right. ~~I look forward to seeing you when we return.~~

Ophelia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know who is most impressed by this update? Me because I didn't think I would actually get anything written in this time with all the things going on in real life (if you follow me on tumblr, you know I've had family visiting a lot lately and little time to do anything than pass out when I get upstairs). While this chapter isn't one of my favorites, there's a lot of little moments in here I really enjoyed - and I'll never use strikethrough in letters again because I had to manually add them (and I'm a liar, I'll use them again, the things unspoken are some of my favorites). 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys the glimpse into Alfonso's mindset from today chapter! I look forward to seeing what people think! I am also curious: would you prefer letter chapters like this with more chances to exchange letters, or the way it was done in chapter five in which we had less letters in general, but more conversation about the letters? Combining the two would be fun, but alas my fingers would surely fall off!


	12. Together We Stand I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen wonders about his own worthiness.

It was early in Haven, the sun creeping over the mountains. The tavern was lively with the morning meal, the room illuminated by bright lanterns. Flissa darted around, handing out drinks and oats, arms laden with bowls and cups, and she breezed by them with a smile and a wink. Cullen didn’t notice, reviewing a letter he received from Ophelia the day before, and only Rylen’s laugh had him looking up in time to smile politely in response.

Rylen sat in the seat on his left, arms crossed behind his head. “Herald coming back today?” 

“Yes. This afternoon if the pass is clear,” Cullen murmured, setting Ophelia’s letter to the side and picking up Cassandra’s. It was so brief that it only took him a moment to read it. “With how irritated Varric is making Cassandra, I would not be surprised if they returned sooner.” 

“She does have a short-temper and Varric has the ability to set it alight.” 

“I think we are flammable enough. Much longer and we will find ourselves blown off the mountain,” Cullen said with a snort, tidying letters up and putting them aside to drag his bowl over. It was a rare good morning for him: he slept without interruption until it was time to begin the drills and woke with a headache less intense than usual. He hoped this meant the worst was behind him. Taking care of himself was the best way to keep the symptoms away, something he didn’t always have the luxury of doing while leading an army against an unknown enemy.

Multiple unknown enemies, he corrected. “Have the men returned from the Hinterlands with Warden Blackwall?” he questioned, mindful of their surroundings. Mattrin and a select team were sent to assist Blackwall with his recruitment mission and return with them to Haven in time to close the breach. It wasn’t a strictly necessary assignment, but there was little evidence exonerating Mattrin and they needed something. Leliana’s agents followed discreetly in hopes of uncovering something useful: a motive, an accomplice, some sort of sign. 

Short of Mattrin, they had little other possibilities for Ophelia’s assassin. With her imminent return, he didn’t relish the idea of someone with a vendetta running amok of the Inquisition. 

Rylen nodded, previous amusement draining. “Aye. The warden is in his usual spot, he and Tanner were discussing the plight of griffons last I checked.” He paused, spoon scraping against the bottom of his bowl. “He’s a strange sort of man, you ken.” 

“Warden Blackwall? He doesn’t tell us much, he’ll take warden secrets with him to the grave, but where he fails in sharing, he excels in teaching,” Cullen said thoughtfully, stirring the oats. “Or did you mean Tanner? I only know partial details of him, he is a quiet sort.” Much as he would like to know every person under his command, he knew it was impossible, and he settled himself with knowing their names if nothing else. He worked on the rest slowly, and trusted the judgment of people like Rylen, like Leliana, like Hawke for the rest. 

“Tanner,” Rylen agreed. “Funny man with that accent of his.” 

Cullen shot him an amused look. “You’re calling the Starkhaven accent funny? I seem to recall a great deal of fighting in Kirkwall over it.” 

“You’re the one with an accent, Ferelden,” he shot back. “But no, it’s a poor attempt at mimicking us, he’s not Starkhaven born, ya ken? Ostwick born and raised, he told me, he was on a job in Starkhaven with his family, he nagged me for questions a great deal when we were traveling together. Told me his brother was a templar. Nasty business.” 

“How so?” Cullen didn’t disagree. Templar business seemed to be a great deal messier than he imagined in his youth. 

Rylen sighed. “I don’t ken all the details, I only read a bit of his letter--” 

“Why is everyone reading other people’s letters? Have you no sense of privacy?” he wondered aloud, looking at his own pile of letters to find it untouched. He would warn Cassandra snooping was not limited to the Inquisitor’s strike teams, and he would remember to find a locked box for his correspondence. 

“It was an accident! He left it out, and I snooped a few paragraphs of it. His sister has a way with words, called this Fabian a brother to be forgotten, and other creative curses I dinna ken the meaning of,” he replied with a shrug and then sobered. “Sounds like he was caught with a mage. By the family, I am guessing, and not the order or we would have heard from Tanner himself - or Sister Leliana. She was not specific, and I felt too guilty afterwards to keep reading.” 

Cullen didn’t choke on his food, but it grew thick in his mouth and settled like a rock in his stomach. Fraternization with the mages was a surefire way to get yourself removed from the templars, dishonor upon you and your name, and it was worse to the mages themselves. He didn’t oversee the punishment, but he shifted in his seat, no longer hungry. Solitary confinement was the lightest of their punishments and the least used one. Such thoughts didn’t bother him once, not after Kinloch, but time brought clarity. It was one thing he hadn’t yet ventured with Grand Enchanter Fiona and Bethany: how to help those who were hurt from this time. 

How to help those who were hurt by the templars in general, frankly. 

His eyes were drawn to the sword of mercy on his gauntlet. He kept it as a reminder of the templars, the good and the bad. The good seemed fewer and farther between with each passing day, and now the gauntlet served as a reminder of what he wanted to avoid. His entire life now was built around stark reminders of what he didn’t want to be. 

And others were a reminder of what he wanted to be. 

Cullen banished the thought from his mind. He didn’t deserve light yet. He asked, caring little for the answer: “Why does this make him strange? His brother is not the first person, nor the last one, and it has little to do with Tanner himself.” 

“Almost didn’t recognize him when he came to the Inquisition is all, what with the accent. Maybe he doesn't want others to know his brother was disavowed? Thinks it’ll shame him? Dinna ken why he thinks people will know, either,” Rylen said with a shrug. “He’s a noble, some are just eccentric. Maybe he’s got family who don’t want him here.” 

“You must be close if he followed you to the Inquisition. You’ve never mentioned him before,” Cullen pointed out.

“No, we were traveling to Kirkwall together. He left after he got the letter.” Rylen frowned. “I ken what you are doing, you can’t avoid the question.”

Cullen hoped he didn’t know. “I’m not avoiding anything. This is small talk, do they not teach it in Starkhaven? Josephine can assist, if so.”

“Herald’s coming back. You ken what to say?” Oh, that was easier to handle than what Cullen imagined.

“Welcome back,” he said dryly. 

Rylen flicked an oat at him, snorting. “You’ve got eyes for the lass, it’s plain as day.”

Maker. He flinched, shooting him a dark look. “I have no idea what you mean. The Herald and I have chosen to be friends, it makes the situation a great deal easier when I don’t have to worry about her thinking of me as a villain. I can’t protect someone like that.” He didn’t want her to think of him as a villain either. 

Rylen held up his hands. “Just meant you're a great deal livelier around her, you can’t blame me from seeing something. A light. You barely look like the man from Kirkwall these days.” 

Was it the lack of lyrium in his system, or the hope for the future, or his fumbling attempts at amends? “Not a bad thing. Kirkwall wasn’t a good place to be a templar or a mage,” Cullen murmured. “What of you? Do you think yourself the same man after everything you’ve seen here? I have not been this… normal with a mage in a long time.” His head whispered the consequences of this, and Cullen did his best to ignore it. 

“In small ways, but my duty hasn’t changed,” Rylen said, shrugging, his gaze flickering for the briefest of moments with discomfort. Cullen narrowed his eyes, and he shook his head. “What? You ken me, I will not forsake my duty just because the threat looks different. Protect people from magic, be it from a person or the breach.” 

While he didn’t know the solution to all of his problems, Rylen presented the solution to one. Grand Enchanter Fiona had questioned him only the other day with a request for who he would put forward to the squad for abomination elimination. He hadn’t been sure who could do it, not without risking the tenuous alliance they had made with the mages. “You once told me you would put out a fire rather than smite the flames for heresy. Are you not afraid of the people who wield it?” 

“I’m afraid fire may burn me, but I still warm my hands on a flame,” Rylen dismissed. “The only thing that’s changed for me is how much easier it is to know a person outside the circle, and how much more you want to protect them. Would you ken Bethany Hawke was a lively drunk in the tower? Or that the elf girl, Merrill, can carry a tune? Aye, maybe you’re right, maybe I have changed, but I dinna ken what it means for me anymore than what I know it means for you.” 

“Change simply… is,” Cullen said, sighing. “This time around, it doesn’t seem like a bad thing.” 

“Aye, I don’t think some light for any of us is a bad thing.” Rylen paused for only a moment, and grinned. “Might burn my face, but with how pasty yours is, I can imagine your arse is blinding. Some light and sun would do you good.” 

Cullen laughed. “I’ll have you doing latrine duty with the rest of them.”

“Then who will watch the soldiers while you talk with the Herald?” he pointed out, ducking at the piece of oat Cullen flung at him. 

“You said your duty hadn’t changed,” he said, setting his spoon down, a sure sign he wouldn’t retaliate further for Rylen’s teasing. “I think you’re right.” 

“Aye?” Rylen said, suspicious. “You’re not about to send me on the hunt for some mythical god or the rest of Andraste’s ashes, are you?”

“What? No, I was merely thinking you would be a decent fit for the combat units they have for handling abominations. Small teams, two mages and two templars, overseen by someone of the templar’s choosing and someone of the mages,” he said, rolling his eyes. As if they would have time finding gods or ashes on top of everything else the Inquisition was handling. “I discussed it with Bethany and Grand Enchanter Fiona. Abominations are as much a worry to the mages, and we thought it best to be prepared for it. Involving the mages will be helpful in thwarting one.” 

“Mages and templars are working on this?”

“It is the only sound plan we have in an otherwise impossible situation. I was reminded clearly and bluntly that mages would be vocal about avoiding abominations themselves.” It still made his heart jitter with worry, fearing corruption and bloodshed and failure, but only time and exposure would ease those wounds. “I am ill-equipped for this and no longer a templar - and unfortunately my duties for the Inquisition come first. You, however, are a templar and the sort who wouldn’t take this power and run with it which is the only concession they requested of me.” 

He stopped, waiting, his hands folded on the table. The look on Rylen’s face was one of deep thought, mulling over something that sounded right but also wrong, and Cullen would give him the chance to work it out. It was always strange to challenge your worldviews, and Cullen was asking him to do just that. It was strange to imagine: mages and templars working together, but they were all part of the Inquisition. If there was any chance to improve things, to make sure no one fell to the same mistakes that destroyed Kinloch and Kirkwall, then it was here. 

“Aye, I suppose it’s a good offer. Is this from the Inquisition, or has the Chantry started making decisions once more?” Rylen asked several moments later. 

Cullen hesitated. The Inquisition blurred the lines between everything they knew. “At this point, mostly Inquisition and further proof of our heresy in the eyes of the Chantry. As this is considered a military unit and part of the Inquisition, it would fall under my jurisdiction and, as we said, I am no longer a templar. Beyond that, the next Divine will decide whether this continues or not, among other things.” 

He didn’t know what would happen once they selected a new Divine. The mages and templars all returning to their respective cages seemed likely, and the thought didn't fill him with the pleasure it once might have. They had made progress - he had made progress. In the near two weeks Ophelia and her team had been gone, he progressed to polite discussions with some of the mages without anyone running away or flinching in fear. He was proud of the first time one came up to him for assistance, proud of the first time he offered a solution to one that wasn’t met with righteous ridicule or fear. Proud to talk about safety measures with Bethany and know it wasn’t paranoia or fear fueling him. 

It felt more like the templar order he imagined, the one that the templar order should be: good, honorable. About the safety of the mages, not the safety of others from them, a line so twisted it was merely a mockery of what it once was, but no more. It unwound more every day. 

Someday, he might even be worthy for--

Cullen stopped the thought in his tracks, fearing returning in a trickle. 

He wouldn’t be worthy until the fear was gone.

“I accept then,” Rylen said, breaking him from his thoughts. “We’ll change things.” 

“One step at a time,” Cullen agreed faintly. This was enough for now. 

…  
…

Varric bid him hello with a friendly wave, Alfonso with an enthusiastic salute, and Vivienne offered a short nod of greeting with Cassandra. None of them lingered, hastening to bath off the effects of travel and return to their usual haunts. With how quick they were to leave, it didn’t require a response from him, and he was just relieved to have all their people returning. He half expected Cassandra to drop Varric in a marsh or off the path and left him there.

Ophelia lingered, still seated on her horse, reins slack in her hands and gaze fixed on the mages. He couldn't read the look on her face for a moment, but the bittersweet smile to pull at her lips made him think she longed to join them. Did she miss the comrades she had in the mages? In truth, she spent little time with others, talking mostly with Dara or Cullen, and more these days with Cassandra or Vivienne. But still, there was certainly a difference from this life and the one she might have held in the circle.

It was impossible to walk quietly in his armor, and the noise drew her gaze from the mages to him. The slow, sweet smile to cross her lips brought one to his own. "Need a hand?"

She held the reins loosely with one hand, spinning her legs to one side of the horse. Her other hand grasped his, little of the hesitation that was once prominent in their interactions. "Are you not cold, Lady Trevelyan?" He asked, noting her bare hands, her fingers curling over his own, dark against the light of his gauntlet. 

She frowned. "I lost my gloves in the marsh. I am glad warming magic is an apprentice level skill for anyone rather than just someone who studies fires. It's very cold here," she said, kicking at the snow with her foot with a glare, offended at the cold ice. Snowflakes were still falling gently from the afternoon storm, and small flakes landed on their still joined hands. The sword of mercy taunted him.

Cullen cleared his throat, slowly relinquishing his grip. "We should have a spare pair for you to use. It wouldn't be ideal to wander around in a place like this without any protection."

“Don’t you know? My intellect has only grown: I can punch people, I can use battle magic to an apprentice level degree in theory and practice, and I can heal small wounds, I am hardly without protection,” she said, a teasing smile on her lips.

“Be that as it may, I am not sure your magic can hold out against a storm,” he replied, lifting his chin to the sky, where the clouds were grey and overcast. It made the mountain look eerie and the shadows longer, though he found it hard to notice such things right then. 

Her nose wrinkled. “No, I think not. Sustaining magic is a lot harder, short bursts are faster and they make you feel less like you stood up too fast after sitting a long while.” Her feet slid in the snow while she spoke, and Cullen caught her shoulder with a free hand absently. She flashed him another smile. “I would not say no to some new gloves, though. It’s very cold here, I can see why you have this.” Ophelia reached out, prodding the fur of his mantle, sighing at the warmth in it. 

Cullen cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. Her hand dropped, face a little red, and he hastened to continue speaking, not wanting their conversation to fall into the awkwardness of their past. “I will keep that in mind when I put in the word.” Helpful. Well done. Cullen sighed, and picked a new thread. “I admit, I underestimated how tall your Avvar was until he arrived. I hope this Hand of Korth was less formidable looking.” 

With relief, she shook her head. “No, he was worse.”

“We didn’t send you with nearly enough soldiers then,” he said, worried. 

“If you measured his helmet from horn to horn, it was possibly taller than Varric. His hammer was certainly taller than me,” she said with a laugh. “And he was fast at swinging it, if it weren’t for Madame de Fer showing me how to properly fade step, I would be an Ophelia sized puddle on the floor.” 

“I don’t imagine you found it so amusing when you first faced him.” He gestured for her reins, volunteering to lead it while she shouldered her bag. Smiling thankfully, the two began their slow walk to the stables, unwilling to let the conversation end, even as duty called to them both.

“No, I didn’t,” she agreed, still smiling. “It was my first time fighting in such an environment, I thought it would be more… proper. Like those duels people talk about in books, but it was cold, and rainy, and an undead had ripped my robe, and he was prattling about our unworthiness. It didn’t feel very heroic - I didn’t feel like the Warden-Commander facing against the one Ferelden… Logan?”

Cullen laughed quietly. “Teryn Loghain.”

“Yes, him. It was just tiring -- and terrifying. He did not obey the rules of the fight, it wasn’t honorable at all, and I know fights aren’t, but I thought if he was challenging me, and I selected Alfonso as my champion, he would only be fighting him. But he attacked all of us?” she said, exasperated. “Where’s the honor in this?” 

“I imagine that’s more of a personal defect than an Avvar one,” he said.

“True, and perhaps it is a cultural difference that I don’t understand, I will have to ask Skywatcher. I guess it was a good thing he broke the rules, Alfonso was injured with all of us there. He could have been killed on his own,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip, some of the amusement draining from her voice. “Either way, it would be my fault. I picked him as my champion, and I am a liability on the field, he hasn’t fought with me before the way the others have.” 

“I admit, I was distracted when you all returned, and I didn’t see the full extent of his wounds, but he seemed no worse for wear after a battle with the Avvar, and from the stories people tell about his adventures, I’m sure he will be on his feet and correcting them on how it truly went by tomorrow,” Cullen reassured her. “I don’t think he blames you.” 

“I do, though. I should be better,” Ophelia said, tired. He felt selfish for a moment, delaying their walk just for the time in her presence. No matter how pleasant, she needed rest. “Did I tell you how many letters he sent me? Alfonso, that is.” 

Surprised, he turned to face her. “No. Was it a lot?” 

“Oh, many. One a day, and I was running out of places to put them. The messengers stopped delivering them in camp, he was forced to find other ways to leave it places for me to find, or ask one of the others to hand it over,” she explained. “I didn’t read any of them, not until after the fight. After I kept imagining… Well, what if it was too late? If he had died there, and the last thing he knew was me trying to shove him into the marsh? I’m sorry, I just feel guilty, and then I remember why I’m angry and I’m annoyed at myself for feeling guilty.” She pressed a hand to her face, groaning. “This is a mess.” 

“I don’t know enough about you and your brother, I didn’t hear your entire conversation before you left, but… He spoke with Cassandra and I when they first returned from Therinfal, and he seemed quite earnest,” Cullen said slowly, mindful of the delicate area he was treading. Little of it was his business, but he couldn’t stand seeing the war of emotions on her face. “May I ask what he did?” 

Ophelia didn’t reply, toying with the edge of her bag. 

“You needn’t--” 

“We were close enough for people to think we were twins growing up. If someone was looking for one of us, they would ask the other before anyone else and we almost always had the answer. He was the one who knew I was a mage first, and he didn’t tell anyone about it, we both knew what it meant and neither of us wanted to be apart from the person that was our best friend.” She sighed, petting her horse gently, forehead dropping to lean on the side of its neck. “But then my parents found out and I was taken to the circle. I was sixteen, and scared, and the day the templars took me away, it felt like I was just… no longer important. I didn’t receive a letter from him the entire time I was there, nor from anyone else in my immediate family.” 

Cullen watched her, silent and waiting, trying not to scare off the burst of words. They were no longer walking, halted on the path and distantly he wondered if her hands were cold, if their lack of movement meant pins and needles were returning. Her voice was muffled and quiet, dreading the release of them to the winds, and he only caught her words from their proximity. “He’s asking me to believe he didn’t… because he was afraid of hurting me? I don’t know, and I don’t know how to address it.” 

He hesitated. “I cannot speak for him, but I have told you about my sister? I cannot tell you the last time I sent her a letter, or what I put into it, and it is to avoid hurting her, yes, I don’t want her to know that I’m not the same person she remembered, but also…” He hadn’t spoken about his family in a long while, nothing beyond a line or two, something almost brushed over. “I am afraid of what they will say.” 

“What?” she asked, surprised. “But you are a good man, what could you be -- Oh.” Sympathy welled on her face, and he offered a half smile at the sight of it. 

“Not just Kirkwall though I can imagine they’ve heard of it.” It hadn’t occurred to him that they, like everyone else, would have read about Hawke and seen his role in her story. The thought sickened him, another spike of unworthiness, another tightening of the knot around his neck. “That is, things in my past…” 

His throat was dry, and he cleared it.

“You don’t have to talk about it, this is not… You aren’t required to share anything because I share a lot,” she said softly. 

“Thank you, and I can’t tell you all of it, but I do want to tell you some. The things in my past weren’t good, and I wasn’t in a good place after them. How could anyone be? I didn’t want my family to notice, they are the sort to talk about it, to demand that I speak with them, and it was simply easier to stop responding to their letters. They didn’t know I was transferred to Kirkwall until a long while later, in truth, and the first time I saw my sister’s letter, I was… worried and afraid, not relieved. It became easier to simply send pieces to appease them - not nearly enough to my sister, but what felt like a monolith to me.” 

He still hadn’t sent her a letter, and he didn’t know what was halting him anymore. A different sort of fear to the one before, but Cullen didn’t think about it, not when there was still a point to be made. “I cannot say your brother has my reasons, perhaps his only reasons are the ones people have enjoyed carving into us, the ones that teach us wrong things about the mages, but he is trying… More than I’ve done in recent years, in truth, and while that is an easy bar to step over, it is still something.” 

“Is trying enough?” 

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I wonder that myself, and I hope it is otherwise there is little hope for some people.” 

Quiet fell between them, but he didn’t mind. It wasn’t a lighthearted conversation, but it was an honest one. 

“For what it’s worth, I think you are right, even if it’s hard to stomach right now and… I trust you, I hope you know that, no matter what happened in your past.” His heart lurched, uncertain. Her trust wasn’t something he was worthy of holding, not when he was still making amends, but she didn’t give him the chance to give it back, naware of the way his eyes roamed over her face. “I suppose there is nothing I can do about it until I close the breach, and who knows how that will end. I might not make it through the other side and make this a moot point,” she said, sighing. 

“You’ll succeed. I’ve yet to see you fail, Lady Trevelyan,” he murmured, distracted, her trust heavier to carry than his other responsibilities combined. 

"Will we be going back to formalities?" She blurted out. 

He raised a brow.

Ophelia continued, rubbing her face. "I mean, we agreed. You are Cullen, and I am Ophelia, or is this only an etiquette in letters? I don't want to embarrass you. Or myself," she ended in a mumble, cheeks red, looking straight ahead. Her fingers betrayed her nerves, tapping as they usually did, and he couldn’t help the smile crossing his face as he noticed it.

She had been Ophelia in his head for a long while now, and he had trained himself to say Lady Trevelyan in person. In letters, it had seemed almost too good to be true that he would call her by her name and he hadn’t known whether he could allow himself to hope for the transition to conversation, too. "I would like that, Ophelia, if it does not bother you," he said, still watching her.

“I would like that,” she said, relieved. Her eyes caught his and the pink to her cheeks was not the cold, it couldn't be. 

"Commander!"

Cullen jerked his gaze away, a hot flush spreading across his face. Jim didn't notice, only nodding jerkily to Ophelia, breathless. "A fight is brewing between the mages and the templars.” 

He froze. "Has anyone been hurt yet?"

"No, Ser. The fighting hasn't begun yet. I’m told Enchanter Bethany requests you address it before things grow any worse, she was incessant," he said.

Ophelia took the reins from his hand, looping them around her wrists. Her horse pawed at the ground, tail flicking irritably at the worry in her voice. "Who is it?"

"No one I know, Herald."

Cullen pursed his lips. It wasn't the first time a fight had broken out between the groups, not when tensions were high as they were beneath the breach. It was dire indeed if Bethany was requesting Cullen to personally see it, he often came along in support and solidarity, but left the matters in her hands unless required. His gaze swiveled around in search of Dara or Tanner.

Her hand settled on his arm, drawing him away from his squint at a group of soldiers running down the path. Ophelia nodded when she held his attention. "I will wait at the blacksmith until Dara fetches me," she said, predicting his worry. "Send word if you need my assistance, I might only make things worse if I were to come along now."

Cullen wished to disagree, but he couldn't. No matter what he thought, or some of the others, there would always be a few people likely to think ill of her. The muttering from Inquisition members had lessened a decent bit from anyone who knew her, but an assassin was proof enough of their discontent. He hadn't missed the divide between Ophelia and her fellow mages, nor did he think the templars would be so quick to accept. "You shouldn't have to hide,” he said, stubborn.

"I'm a mage. I will always have to hide," she said, in such a resigned tone that he couldn't - wouldn't - argue. “And at this point, I am still an Inquisition prisoner.” 

He blinked, cold settling over him. Had they not addressed that? Did they even have the power to do so without someone swooping in for her? 

With a short nod to him, she continued up the path, horse on one side and cliff face on the other, and it occurred to him how much she trusted him. Her guard hadn’t been up their entire conversation, and he could see the pieces of it flying into place as they  
parted. When she rounded the bend to the blacksmith, Cullen turned to Jim and ordered, "Show me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original chapter grew so long that I didn't finish editing until the wee hours of the morning - and frankly I am still not done editing. I have decided to split the chapter so you'll have two average length chapters rather than a monolith of one. Let me know what you prefer! I'm also contemplating moving posting day to Friday, thoughts? Follow me on twitter or tumblr under the same penname for notifications about updated, snippets, and/or complaints from me! 
> 
> Lots of little things in this chapter, one that was more character development than anything, and a lot of build up for the next chapter. I'm very curious to see if anyone has caught a detail or two that might be pretty damning for the assassin's identity!


	13. Together We Stand II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the assassin shows their hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of blood and violence!

The fighting had begun, but not so bad as he feared. Only two men jostled each other, slinging fists, sword and magic abandoned in light of whatever lit the fire beneath them. Their companions were tense, watching, mage and templar alike coiled and ready to spring. Cullen didn’t give them a chance. “Enough!” His call carried over the noise, the shuffling of bodies coming to an abrupt halt. A gap formed in the crowd, allowing him to barge his way in. 

A sizeable crowd was forming, his own voice only drawing lurkers closer, eager to take a peek at what had drawn the Commander from his duties. 

The mages stood in a group, eyes glued on their comrade who rolled in the snow in a flurry of black hair and white snow. They rolled into the requisition table, the templar pinning the mage to the ground. “Separate them,” Cullen ordered, eyes landing on the Inquisition agents standing by, watching, unsure. They hastened to obey, though it took several of them to draw each apart. “Put them in the country, the Inquisitor will decide what to do.” 

It was silent as the two were dragged away, still shouting insults at each other in Orlesian. Cullen hoped this wasn’t a petty Orlesian feud, but he wasn’t sure if a fight between the templars and the mages was any better. He scanned over the people who remained, his eyes lingering on those who had other duties, narrowing until they fled in pursuit of something more important. 

It took only a moment for Cullen to read the scene and decide on a plan. “Enough,” he repeated, crossing his arms. “Explain.” One word questions, let them wonder about his ire. 

Mattrin stood to the side, chin tilted and his arms crossed. His icy gaze was on the mages, but he stopped at Cullen’s appearance, stepping back and bowing his head. He marked this behavior in his head, but Mattrin was not the instigator, not likely. None of the mages were looking at him, for starters, though he didn’t doubt all of them were aware of Mattrin’s presence. Cullen didn’t put his back to him.

One brave templar stepped forward, arm crossing over his chest. His face was indistinct beneath his mask, only a pale blur and a crease of too thin lips. “Knight-Captain--”

“That is not my title.” He paused. A flicker of unease was running through the two group, and it occurred to him that he, alone, stood in between a group of people who had been fighting to the death up until a few weeks ago. One side feared him as a templar, and the other he openly refused. It wasn’t ideal, but there was nothing to be done about it. If no one would take charge - and where was Bethany, then? - then he would do it. “Try again.” Mouths opened, and he waved his hand, dismissing them with only a single narrow-eyed look. “From someone who is not so hot-headed that they draw weapons on their comrades,” he interrupted, eyeing those with hands on their weapons. 

“We should talk in private.”

Cullen cut in. “And yet you saw fit to brawl in front of the Chantry. I am not seeing where the privacy is in this, you have made it Inquisition business - you have made it my business.” 

“We suspect the mages are hiding an abomination in their ranks.” 

He didn’t twitch, or betray the sudden shard of unease in his chest. All the better, for the mages swelled, indignant. “We don’t! What proof do you have of this?” asked one sharply: a woman with long brown hair and a smattering of freckles on her snow-white cheeks. Caitriona, he recalled vaguely, recognizing the tattoos on her face, a Dalish elf who had joined the mages on their trek to Haven. 

“Someone reported the mages were acting suspicious. We discovered them conferring and discussing a rune with the power to break through the veil - they wondered if it would be powerful enough to draw them through in one spot,” the templar continued. Kristoff, if the white beard suggested anything. Once an officer, but demoted in the Spire. 

Caitriona scoffed. “You say acting suspicious -- and use the word discussion in the same breath. We were only wondering about the rune the Herald discovered on their trip.” Cullen felt a weight shift off his shoulders, recalling Ophelia’s mentions of it. Hadn’t she sent him the drawing of it? He had passed it along to Bethany for her own study, and truthfully he hadn’t thought about it since. 

“We didn’t do anything until you forced our hand,” Kristoff retorted. “Why else would you freeze Macdonald to the lake?”

“I did it because it was funny - and he deserved it for snooping.” 

Maker, this is what caused the argument?

Mattrin stepped in. “So you don’t deny you were talking about bringing in demons.” Mattrin’s hand rested on his weapon. The templars around him were equally tense. “You think to invoke pity by bringing the prisoner into this, but she is hardly the herald you consider her. You forget, she hasn’t been judged by the Divine - she could be the one who did it. Are you confessing to be her accomplice?” 

The mages shifted, uncomfortable. “We said no such thing either,” Caitriona snapped, arms crossed tightly. “You are looking for an excuse to call open season on us, but we won’t allow it. We are no longer your punching bags, and we are no longer your charges. Whatever you think of the Herald, we are not part of it.” 

“Perhaps we were mistaken then.” 

Cullen waited, eyeing him. Peaceful ending?

“Perhaps the only abomination you hide is the one the Inquisition seems to be treating like an honored guest. Herald, you said? Certainly no herald of mine,” he said sharply, lifting his chin, his eyes moving from the mages who swelled in protest, turning his back to the people whose indignation swelled higher at this dismissal. The templars watched Mattrin, and it relieved Cullen how some of them seemed wary. 

Not enough of them. He couldn’t allow this to go any longer, and a peaceful ending seemed too much to be true. “Right, that’s enough. Whatever you think of Lady Trevelyan, it is not your duty to cast the judgment on her. The Divine will make such a call and until then, you will continue to see her. What the mages think of her is none of your concern,” he warned Mattrin.

Cullen didn’t give him a chance to respond. To the templars, he lifted his voice. “This is not the circle. The mages are not our charges, they are our allies and yours by association, you were not brought to the Inquisition to watch them. You were all brought here to handle the real threat. That is your enemy.” He jabbed a finger at the sky. 

The breach hadn’t grown since Ophelia closed it months ago, but it was still an ominous sight to behold. He had grown used to it, almost impervious to the way it made him feel small. The people standing here, having seen it only from a distance, heads lost in their own war, weren’t immune to it. Several stared. Their locked gaze and gritted teeth were sign enough of their apprehension. Others refused to look at all. 

He shook his head. It was an effort to keep the exasperation from his voice. “Some of you came here to build something that was lost along the way, or something you never had the chance to use at all. Those things will mean nothing if we do not stop this threat first - this is why you were brought here. We need all of you if we wish to do this,” he said. He wished for a moment the others knew the dreadful future awaiting them if they failed. Would they be so willing to fight? “We will address your grievances with each other, but we will not do so in the midst of fighting.” 

“Will they?” A new mage piped in. Emerys. He hadn’t spoken to him often, only enough to recognize the glint of interest in the man’s eyes. 

Cullen didn’t flinch at the question, half of his attention shifting to Emerys, the rest watching the crowd. The templars were deflated, several murmuring quietly to themselves as they looked between Mattrin and Kristoff with varying degrees of confusion. The mages were still as statues, locked in the embrace of fight or flight. “Yes. Grand Enchanter Fiona and Enchanter Hawke--” 

Emerys laughed with little humor. It made the hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck stand up. “They can do little to help us, they already know our plight and they have already spoken on our behalf. Will the templars listen to them?” he asked, jutting his chin towards the templars, his question bringing silence over them all. “I thought not.” 

“They will. The Inquisitor will make them, if you have met her then you already know her persuasiveness.” 

“Perhaps. But the weight she has to give us could be stronger if someone was there, someone the templars respected. You are the former Knight-Captain, you are the Commander,” he prodded.

“You wish for me to be present when your people address the Grand Enchanter,” Cullen stated. 

Emerys sighed, and the haughtiness faded from his face. His comrades closed ranks near him, shoulder to shoulder, united in a common purpose. 

“I want all the templars to know what they and their brother’s subject us to and I want them to listen. But, failing that, I’d be content with one, and you are the one people know most.” 

Cullen contained a flinch, but just barely. He didn’t want to know, truthfully, not beyond the details he already did. His short time in Kirkwall, reviewing the files Meredith left behind, told him enough of the story. The details clung to his memories, fresh as the day he read them. The thought of reading more made him feel ill, but… 

He had promised himself he would never let things go unnoticed again. 

He promised himself he would hear them. Looking at them now, Cullen didn’t think he would ever fully understand - he would never fully deserve the life he craved - if he did not listen. He couldn’t shy away from it, no matter how much the fear pinched at him. 

He wouldn’t overlook a threat again, and this time the threat was him, was it not? 

“You are right,” he said, sighing. “If Grand Enchanter Fiona and Enchanter Hawke welcome it, I will come along and offer what assistance I can.” 

Relief hit Emerys, his shoulders slumping, and the ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Good. I have no wish to fight forever. I want safety and justice,” he said, no longer looking at Cullen, but the templars standing behind him. His eyes locked on them one at a time, and Cullen thought this was a message for them more than anything, and when they landed on Cullen, they hardened with resolve. “I want peace.”

“The Inquisition wants those things, too.” Cullen inclined his head. “I wish them, too, and I believe the only way we can do so together.” 

Cullen looked over them all slowly, taking in the watchfulness that refused to fully fade in each of their faces. They would not solve these tensions today or tomorrow, but someday. Someday he would not feel a flicker of fear or worry. Someday  _ she _ would not have to hide. He wanted that world, for both of them. “Remember who you are, and remember where you are. We are all part of the Inquisition,” he said. “This is not the day we fight among ourselves. Return to your duties, I will see your comrades returned to you when they have calmed.” 

They disbanded slowly. 

One figured didn’t: hip-cocked, grin on her face, and pale hair only peeking out from the hood of her cloak. She didn’t stand out from anyone else shielding themselves from the wind, but as she walked over to him, he recognized her gait. “How eloquent of you,” Hawke teased. “But you probably should have let them come to blows. Nothing like a fight to get the blood rushing, and getting your ass-kicked is a sure fire way to change your mind.” 

He didn’t have enough time today to explain all the reasons that wouldn’t work. “You came to watch, but didn’t speak up?”

“I wanted to see what they would do without someone there to hold their hand.” 

Cullen rubbed his brows. “And?” 

Hawke pushed her hood off, no longer needing to hide. The sight of her snow white hair prompted the few remaining people to scatter, children fleeing from a wrathful mother. She waved briefly, encouraging it, and then shrugged. “Well, they need someone to hold their hands still. Here was me hoping you all had made headway while I was gone.”

“It doesn’t change overnight, Inquisitor.” 

“No, but we can hope, I wouldn’t mind having one less thing to worry about around here. Good thing Bethany didn’t see this, it would be disheartening, she was really proud in her letters.” Her eyes lit up, something he only distantly noticed, too caught up in the wrongness of her words. “Maybe I’ll let you break that to her--” 

He held up a hand. She went silent, derailing his thoughts for a moment, but he took advantage of the pause. “Did your sister not send for me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. His gaze swiveled, taking in the few loitering figures, but neither of them were Jim and neither of them were Mattrin. Alarm bells were ringing in his head.

Hawke, serious, the humor draining from her at the look on his face, shook her head. “She’s been in a meeting with Fiona and Barris for most of the day,” she murmured, arms crossing, face shifting in an instant to one of casualness. He didn’t miss the flash of her eyes, anticipating a problem and preparing to solve. The very reason they chose her as the Inquisitor, in truth, the way she could shift from humor to serious in the blink of an eye. In the past, it bothered him. Too flippant for his preference. Now? He appreciated not having to explain anything, only tilting his head and walking towards Leliana. 

“I was in discussion with Ophelia when I was sent word that your sister requires my presence to halt this mess before it grew out of hand,” he murmured to her. “What other reason would they have for sending me up here if not to get her alone?” 

“Where was she last?”

“The blacksmith. We need to find out what Leliana knows - and fast.” He longed to rush down to where he left her and ensure her safety on his own, but he couldn’t. The sooner they figured out the assassin, the sooner she would be safe. Haven wasn’t so large that he couldn’t make this one stop and find out what they were up against, but… “Someone should find her until we know more. If they are making a move now, we cannot waste time.”

Hawke didn’t argue and as they approached the area Leliana commanded, she caught the elbow of a woman leaving. Charter, a letter in one hand, gone the moment Hawke reached for her. Leliana, stroking the beak of one of her ravens, didn’t halt in her care, but Cullen saw the tension in her shoulders and the cock to her hip. In an instant, she could have a weapon out. Quietly, Hawke ordered: “Gather two people you trust, stay with the Herald until I fetch you. No one else.” 

Charter saluted. 

“This might not have anything to do with her, someone could be messing with you, or the mages could have wanted exactly what they got: your attention on them,” Hawke said with a sigh. “But better safe than sorry.” 

“Is there a problem?” Leliana asked, beckoning the two deeper inside with a free hand. 

Her command center was much like his one: a weather resistant cloth propped up like a tent, a lone lamp resting on a stack of crates. Her paperwork didn’t spread across the desk and fall off the sides like his own, but the ashes of old missives were piling on the floor, awaiting someone to clean them up. Cullen and Hawke stood at the entrance of it, and their shadows blocked out the light. It gave the illusion of privacy, but he was well aware of how easy it would be for someone to listen. 

“Someone went through a lot of effort to bring the Commander up here. We need to know if it was for his own sake, or if it was because his presence at the Herald’s side meant they couldn’t strike. What word do you have on the Mattrin fellow? He was quite good at stirring the ire of others today,” Hawke said in a murmur, frowning. 

The spymaster sighed, stepping past them to let the raven go. A message was attached to its ankle, and she watched it fly for a moment, face an impervious mask but eyes soft. Cullen, jittering, longed for the woman who didn’t waste time and as if reading his face, her expression hardened and she shook her head. “No, nothing. Mattrin did his mission without faltering, and the only unusual thing he did was stop to assist a mage called Caitriona with their horse when it proved too fierce for their experience. ” 

“That’s not exactly a bad thing,” Hawke said, raising a brow. 

“Kindness seems unusual for him,” Cullen said. “He is not fond of mages, and he would not help one unless the situation was life threatening. His duty is to keep them alive and safe, not comfortable. Something changed. Guilt?” 

“Stellar templars you have there, I’m glad I’m not going to those meetings,” she muttered. He didn’t argue. “Then, what, he’s a good guy on his own, but the herd turns him into an asshole?”

“He didn’t seem to care about throwing barbs at Caitriona today,” Cullen agreed, arms crossing. 

Leliana shot them an amusement tinged smile. “I am leaning towards a lover’s quarrel. His ire for Trevelyan makes more sense after watching the way he and Caitriona were interacting today.” 

“You were there too?” he asked, frustrated. “And you did nothing?” 

“You had it in hand,” she said dismissively, lips twitching. “Be that as it may, I am inclined to agree with the Inquisitor. This must have been the mages attempting to get you here, to make you agree to sitting in with the Grand Enchanter during the addressment. Why? Perhaps for what they said, perhaps for something worse, I will need to dig to find out.” 

“So Mattrin isn’t the assassin,” Cullen said, the tension draining from his shoulders. “And this was not an attempt on her life.” 

“He has no motive for it. As it stands, I dug into his story and I am inclined to think his ire for Trevelyan comes from obligations to a friend. Rumors from Ostwick say he was friends with the man who was her lover and their falling out was reason enough to dislike her. Grudges have been started for less in the game.” 

“It was a templar?” Cullen and Hawke chorused, equally baffled. He recalled her sometimes bizarre behavior around him, trusting him and not trusting him in equal measure during the beginnings of their acquaintanceship. Perhaps he was too quick in assuming it was from his own history rather than hers. He continued, frowning. “They know about this, and they kept him in the templars? And her, they did not…?” 

Lesser crimes had warranted harsher punishments. Meredith would consider it nothing short of an abomination preying on the templars, and a pang of relief hit him that Ophelia was not in Kirkwall. That she had never been in Kirkwall to face this madness. The guilt of it hit a moment later, for how many others were in the same situation? 

“Is it possible the lover is the assassin? She hasn’t told us anything about him, nor did her family,” Hawke wondered. 

“There are no records of him afterwards, it’s too soon to say if the absence is noble influence, purposeful ignorance, or the circle’s rebelling. It could be the templars are hiding him in their numbers, but I checked. There are no templars named Fabian in the Inquisition.” 

Cullen choked. 

“Commander?”

Fabian. Was it coincidence he had heard a name like that only this morning, or providence that Rylen and he had fallen into the discussion? “There is no Fabian in the Inquisition, but there is someone in the Inquisition related to someone with the same name and a similar history,” Cullen said slowly, mind racing. Maker, was it really the same person? 

Caught with a mage, Rylen had said, but was that reason enough? He had made rash judgments in the past, ones that proved fatal for all involved, and then he had done the opposite in other areas, allowing the pain to continue on right under his nose. He was on edge, and the withdrawal made him paranoid, more so than he was before. It could be nothing, he couldn’t trust himself. 

Hawke. If he couldn’t trust himself, he could trust her and he could trust Leliana. The Inquisition hadn’t steered him wrong, not yet, and they had proven their character was stronger than his own at times. “Tanner,” he said, feeling as though centuries had passed while he thought, though it was no more than a few moments. “His brother was a templar caught with a mage and disavowed from the order for it,” he said, fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade. “That can’t be a coincidence.” 

“You are sure?” Hawke asked, frowning. “What do we know about Tanner?” 

“Skilled bowsman. Noble connection in Starkhaven and Ostwick. Far guard for the Herald -- and he was the one who pointed the finger at Mattrin. The obvious threat. He joined us, not long after we recovered her.” Leliana murmured, a flame lighting behind her eyes. “Templars who are disavowed do not survive long, the withdrawal is strong and it kills most. We have to assume the brother is dead, and if so, Tanner wants revenge. No, this can’t be a coincidence, and if they are, I have questions.”

“You can ask them when we bring him here, but right now, he is out there with her,” Cullen said sharply. “She will trust him, and so will the people with her. No one will think twice of them being on their own and he needs only a moment.” 

“Why now?” 

“A question we can ask him later,” Hawke said dismissively, grabbing his arm and dragging him out of the way. “Leliana, we’ll find the Herald, I want you to find out everything you can about him.” She didn’t wait for a response, nor did Cullen linger to hear what she would say. The moment Hawke prompted them to move, he pulled his arm away from hers, jogging to the gates with Hawke on his heels. 

…

...

“Dara is with her. He should be able to keep her safe until we-- Oh, Andraste’s flaming ass, why do I speak in curses?” she moaned as they stumbled down the path to the blacksmith. Harrit looked over at the swearing, bemused, but the one most confused was Dara himself. His arm was cradled against his shoulder and the glow of magic made his brown eyes glow. For a heartbeat, Cullen felt relief, certain it was Ophelia, but it was short-lived as the glow faded and a stern-faced man appeared instead. 

Dara watched them, baffled, the aura of healing magic making his brown eyes glow. 

“What’s the matter?” Dara asked. Hawke shot over to Harritt, her questions launched in the sounds of work. 

“Where’s Tanner and Ophelia?” he asked, a bite to his tone that he couldn’t hold back. Who else was involved? Dara himself could be a suspect. Cullen’s eyes were darting between Dara and the other soldiers milling around. None of them had her long, dark hair or short, soft build. 

“Tanner was helping her collect elfroot. I took a tumble off the cliff and banged my shoulder something nasty. The Herald didn’t think she could heal a broken bone,” he said, attempting to shrug and wincing. Cullen glared, biting back his initial response, and Dara stopped. “They weren’t far behind me, the Herald seemed to only be wasting time. Just down that path, she didn’t want to go far, just-- Commander? Inquisitor?” 

They were running. 

It couldn’t be a coincidence. 

Dara’s footsteps followed them, but Cullen didn’t pay attention to it, darting ahead of the group, following the trail until steps veered off the path, a trail of broken snow announcing the place they went off. 

“That veers further from camp, what in the Maker’s name were they thinking?” Dara said aloud, panting. 

“He was thinking this is the perfect place to murder her,” Hawke spat, stomping. “How dare he take advantage of us? How dare he-- Ugh, I’m going to execute him.” 

“Inquisitor! Inquisitor, what do you mean! He couldn’t be the one, I would have saw him, I would have-- Maker, how would I have missed it? I see his face more than anyone’s!” 

Cullen shot them both a dark look. “Less talking, more following,” he warned, stepping in the tracks Ophelia and Tanner had left for them. “If they hear us coming, he will kill her.” 

“And if we wait too long, she could be dead already!” 

He pointed at the trees around them, thicker the further they went, and shook his head. “You know as well as I do that you don’t drag someone away like this if you had a quick death in mind,” he said, quietly, grimly, pushing aside a thick branch. He winced at the cascade of snow falling with a noise like groans. 

No, not like groans, it was groans. They fell quiet, readying themselves, and Dara held his weapon aloft, trembling from his injury. Cullen indicated for him to hang back, and then point for Hawke to circle around. 

Both rounded the corner - and halted. 

A bloodbath met their eyes. The fallen snow had buried Charter’s legs and lower half, her arm resting limp across her chest with the bone protruding from her skin. Slumped against one of the trees, a woman whimpered, trying to remove the arrow lodged into his chest. The last person was a man - and he was dead, his eyes staring vacantly at the sky. 

“Maker, how many people are working with him?” Hawke asked in a whisper, aghast. 

Dara shot across the field, feet sliding in the blood soaked snow as he supported the figure against the tree. “We need to help them,” he said, pressing hard against the wound, fumbling with his belt for something to help. The woman whimpered some more, reaching for him, and then her hand fell heavily, limp at her side. “Maker, are they all dead?” 

“N-No,” murmured Charter in a raspy voice, roused with a whimper. “Fled… north. He attacked us.”

“One man took you all out?” Hawke said, crouching near her, eyeing her wounds. Charter mumbled, and then stilled. Hawke made a strangled noise, only subsiding when she touched her neck and caught a faint trace of hope. “Dara, go back and find someone. Bring Rylen and Bethany, or any of the mages who can heal,” she ordered, gaze drifting from Charter to the sky overhead. The sun wasn’t yet gone, but the sky was darkening bit by bit. If they didn’t find Ophelia before dark, she would be gone. 

“Hawke.” He didn’t notice Dara’s departure, nor care, only thinking of the darkening sky and the dimming light. 

“He took out three people on his. Three skilled people,” Hawke reasoned, face creased with worry. “If I let you go, you could die.”

“If we leave her out here, she’ll die,” he said stubbornly. “And if she does, we’ll never close the breach. Everyone will die.” The words tasted like ash, for he knew this wasn’t his only reason for wanting to find her. It wasn’t his only reason for fleeing into the woods with only half a plan and a hope. 

Cullen fathom a world where Ophelia Trevelyan was gone. 

“Find her - don’t die, I need someone to insult who won’t fight back, everyone else is too mean for me,” she said with forced lightness. “I’ll wait here until someone comes and then we’ll find you. If you find them, don’t do anything stupid, I just want you to watch.”

“If I have to act, I will,” he said stiffly. 

“If you don’t have to act, then don’t. We need to know if he’s doing this for personal reasons - or if his personal reasons have pushed him to this Elder One.” 

He didn’t like it. Nor did he like leaving Hawke alone with their dead and injured, but he could no more stay behind than he could halt the setting of the sun. Every moment they wasted, Ophelia could be bleeding and dying, and he couldn’t allow it. The world couldn’t have suffered through this and found a light, only to lose it. 

Cullen walked on. The wind blew harsh through the trees, and the further he walked, the denser it grew, the terrain awkward to traverse. Snow fell only in trickles, a blessing to him as the sky grew darker. It was hard enough to find the trail without the snow burying it. 

He followed their tracks, using the steps they left behind as a guide, unsure of how long he had been walking, and how long he had been shivering, cheeks red in the snow. The trees were a welcome respite from the cold, but a stark reminder that Ophelia, however much further ahead she was, would be shivering and upset with the cold among everything else. 

Voices hit him, and he paused, hand on the trunk of a tree, eyes narrowed at the sight of two figures in the distance. The trees were thicker, the light dimmer, and Cullen approached slowly, wary of the crunching snow beneath his feet. He needn’t have bothered, for Tanner was red-faced, yelling, when Cullen appeared at the edge of a small meadow.

Ophelia stood in the center, a bruise on her cheek and a dazed look on her grim face. A dagger rested in the snow near her feet, droplets of blood sprinkled between her and Tanner. His heart froze, fingers twitching around the hilt of his sword, memories of stumbling across her in the field, this same enemy near her pretending to be a friend. He remembered her fear, and the trust she placed in him when she rested upon his arrival. 

He couldn’t allow that memory to be joined with another. Cullen breathed, and focused. It wasn’t her blood. Short of the way she held a hand against her head, and the bruise building around her right eye, she wasn’t injured. Tanner, however, held a hand against his side, blood dripping at his feet. 

“My brother died…” Tanner choked on his anger and his grief. “He died because he chose you.” 

Ophelia flinched, but didn’t reply. 

“Say something!” he shouted. Cullen crept closer, his approach masked by Tanner’s rage. “I want to know… I want to know why he chose you.” 

Her lips trembled. “I don’t know,” she whispered, flinching at the way he nearly flew across the snow. Cullen tensed, hand on his sword, but Tanner wasn’t fighting, seeming content to scream. 

Don’t do anything stupid, he recalled. It was hard to resist the urge to burst in there and push him away, but the memory of their people spread across the snow, dead and dying, was the only thing holding him in place. Right now, Tanner’s anger was keeping Ophelia alive, and if Cullen burst in there… if he gave Tanner a reason to cut their talk short… 

“He asked us to take care of the child. As if he would someday be able to come home and pick it up, as if we would all just drop what we were doing to care for it. Did he not realize what it would do to our family? Accepting this child, this… this child we knew was the son of a mage!” Tanner snapped, jerking away from her when she flinched again. He halted, dazed, footsteps faltering. His fingers tightened over his wound for a moment, and then he scoffed. “My father was a fool, and my brother his favorite. He accepted it and when he died, the first thing I did was send it to Tevinter. Let them have a mage’s child, I don’t want it.” 

“You… sent my son to Tevinter? Your own nephew?” she whispered, hands balling at her sides. 

Tanner struck her. “He’s not my family! There are no mages in my family! None!” 

Cullen shifted, fingers tightening on his weapon. If he moved too soon, he killed her. If he moved too late, she died.

Ophelia held her ground, blood on her lips and eyes narrowed in anger. He could feel the magic around her, priming for attack. 

Tanner moved away. “And then he came back, because the templars didn’t want him, because they knew - as we did - that he was… involved with the likes of you. My sister wrote to me when I was traveling, he wanted to know where the child was.” 

Cullen gritted his teeth. Waiting was agony. 

“You brought this upon him.”

“I didn’t--” 

“You did! If he hadn’t met you, he wouldn’t have ever left the templars! He wouldn’t have suffered without lyrium, he wouldn’t have raved. I wouldn’t have-- I wouldn’t have killed him if he didn’t know you.” 

“You… you killed him?” she asked, magic faltering. 

Tanner didn’t hear. His pale face was pale, eyes watering, more emotion on his face than Cullen had ever seen. “I had to. He was going to ruin us all,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry.” 

It was the wrong thing to say and all thoughts of a plan fled from Cullen’s head. 

His injury forgotten in light of these words, Tanner shifted, teeth bared, the drawing of his sword loud in the eerie quiet of the clearing. Ophelia fell silent, stepping back, stumbling over the dagger underneath her feet and falling into the snow. 

Tanner raised his blade - and Cullen shot into the clearing, their weapons meeting in a clang of blades, the blow stopped before it could come down on her head. Her scream cut off in a choked cry of “Cullen!” and he spared her only a brief glance. Safe, wide-eyed, magic crackling in her fists from terror. It was only a look, and he didn’t linger, focusing on the threat.

The angle of his parry was off, and it was only Tanner’s injury that kept him from breaking Cullen’s wrist at this angle. Cullen twisted his sword, angling the strike off the edge of his blade. 

Tanner stumbled back, winded and off-balance, dots of sweat across his sallow face. “I should have known you would show up. All the time you two spend following each other. Fabian was a fool - but I thought you were smarter than getting mixed up with a mage, Commander.” 

If it was taunt for him, it was a poor one. Cullen wasn’t so young to be dragged into a battle of slights with a traitor, but Tanner didn’t seem to care for a response. “When I saw you that day with Dara… I didn’t plan it. I thought it would be better after the breach, but I saw you with him, and I remembered you with the Commander. You were worming your way into the inner circle - you were going to ruin them, too.” 

Cullen didn’t speak, shifting as Tanner did to keep himself between the man and Ophelia. The motion didn’t go unnoticed, and Tanner snarled, frustrated. “You would pick a mage you barely know?” 

“There’s no justification for this,” he said, ignoring him. “You’d doom the world for something like this?” 

“She’s using you.” 

“I’m not using him. I didn’t use Fabian, either,” Ophelia said, aghast. 

“Step aside, Commander. I will spare the Inquisition from making the same mistake as my brother.” 

Cullen raised a brow. “According to you, I’m a thrall under her command, I would have the ability to move,” he said dryly, mind racing. How long would it take Dara to fetch others, and how long would it take for them to find the trial? The light was nearly gone, their shadows stretching across the fallen snow like wraiths. If it grew much darker, this fight would be much more dangerous. 

He didn’t doubt his own abilities. This was no worse than any other fight he had been in over the years, but Ophelia was at his back and he couldn’t leave his position. The lack of movement was a distinct disadvantage - evened out only by the injury Tanner fought to hide. 

Worse still, could he find his way back? It would be no trouble in daylight, he had memorized maps on maps of the area, but stumbling blindly in the dark with only Ophelia’s magic as light and warmth? Unlikely to last long. The only solution was to stop him now. 

Tanner shook his head. “If you are of sound mind then you must agree with me.”

“No.”

Tanner hefted his sword, as if the break had given him the chance to regain his strength, and struck. Ophelia gasped, the snow sliding beneath her feet as she took a step back.

Cullen, expecting it from such a blatant monologue, caught the hit. It made his teeth rattle, more strength than he expected -- but he should have. Tanner had taken on several people on his own. Skilled, good people. Cullen shoved back with all his might, sending the man stumbling back several steps. 

No time to waste, the light was shrinking. Cullen advanced, striking. Tanner parried, sliding back on deceptively light feet, and shooting forward again with surprising speed. They continued this way for several seconds, the strikes fast as lightning. Tanner’s attacks grew in strength, each hit sending pain through Cullen’s arm, though he didn’t slow in his counterings. 

One strike came close, and Cullen shot forward, his blade missing a strike through Tanner’s stomach. It caught his uninjured side, the sharp blade cutting through Tanner’s clothes like wet parchment. Tanner jerked back a step, but the wound was too light for the sway. Another step back, and a pause. Tanner’s hand pressed against his side, bloodied still, his breath coming in pants as he waited. 

It was a trap to draw Cullen out. He regretted his lack of throwing daggers now. They weren’t accurate enough for his tastes, but it would only take a moment to strike - and it was for this reason that he didn’t follow Tanner. Cullen didn’t have throwing knives, but he didn’t doubt for a second Tanner’s possession of some.

Only a moment of leaving Ophelia exposed could mean death. 

It was maddening for Tanner to leave himself exposed, but Cullen wasn’t foolish enough to fall for the trap. 

“Give her up, Commander, I don’t want to kill you. I’ve done enough to the templars.”

“No,” he repeated, coldness in his voice. It was galling to think Cullen would give anyone up for slaughter - but then, that was his past, wasn’t it? How many others thought him capable of it? That was then, though, a man from another time, who hadn’t learned or seen. It was maddening to think he would give up anyone to this, let alone her.

A shadow was moving across the field. Cullen tensed. 

“Then I am sorry, Commander, that you were dragged into this, but rest assured, I will tell people your story--” 

His words cut off, his voice choked, as the shadow materialized in the form of Rylen, his blade pressed against the back of Tanner’s neck. A light shot into the clearing, and the shadows became people. Dara to one side with Bethany, the latter holding tight to her staff. Hawke and Alfonso Trevelyan, expression’s serious. 

“I severely doubt the accuracy of your stories,” Hawke said dryly, hand on her hip as she studied Tanner. His eyes darted, taking them in. Slowly, his grip on his sword slackened, and it landed in the snow, narrowly avoiding his foot. 

Ophelia let out a breath. 

It was only when Rylen began binding Tanner’s wrist that Cullen did the same. His fingers were cramped and he tucked his sword away, flexing each of his fingers in turn until feeling returned. She stepped closer, a worried look on her face and a hand on his elbow, as if the twitch of his fingers was a sign of something worse. He shook his head, studying her in the pale light. 

Her hair was falling from her braid in clumps, melted snow making strands stick to the side of her neck. The cloak she wore was ripped in several places, torn during her struggles and subsequent dragging into the woods. A bruise was forming on her left cheek, darker than he had first thought, though the cut on her lip was less severe than he imagined. It was the tear tracks that made him pause, the light making them stand out in stark contrast. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, but it was drowned out by Alfonso’s hurried footsteps. 

Ophelia let out a gasp of surprise as her brother flung his arms around her, drawing her close for a heartbeat and then letting her drop. “Don’t ever do that to me again! I can’t believe I let you walk off with him!” he declared, holding her at arm’s length. His fingers went to her bruise, and she flinched back. His hand dropped, eyes concerned. “What happened?”

“He hit me. I think?” She looked at Cullen, as if he knew. He stared back, befuddled and tired, as Alfonso launched into a spiel, half to her and half directing insults at Tanner who looked sour-faced. “I’ll be okay,” she said quietly, and Cullen nodded, sensing the unspoken truth beneath it without asking for further. 

Who could be okay after this? 

“We should go,” Hawke said, frowning. “It’s getting dark.” 

“Let me heal--” 

A scuffle broke out. A hoarse, pained voice cried out and Rylen collided with a nearby tree. Cullen couldn’t see if he was breathing, not from here, and his blade was in his hand, charging at Tanner in unison with Hawke. Another blast sent him sliding off his feet, avoiding a tree only by virtue of the shove. 

Cullen rolled across the snow, sword discarded somewhere in the snowdrifts as the clearing was alight with the sound of fighting. Cullen didn’t see Hawke, and Bethany’s lights were flickering with her anger and terror. 

Alfonso and Dara were fighting back to back, but their injuries were plain, and Tanner was--

Magic. Tanner was using magic, his face alight with annoyance. “I didn’t want to use this,” he called, batting Alfonso and Dara away as though they were flies. Cullen fumbled for another weapon, shooting up to his feet and heading for Ophelia as his fingers closed around his sword once more. 

She wasn’t moving, shoulders tense, eyes roaming over Tanner’s face. Her fingers were curled around Cullen’s dagger, hand trembling with fear. “You’re a mage. Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not a mage, I’m not like you. This… I don’t need this, I don’t need to use it,” Tanner said sharply, creeping closer. His steps were steady, the wound healing before their eyes. Cullen crept closer, but not quietly enough. Vines crept around his ankles, yanking him off his feet. “I’m not a mage.” 

“You are. That’s what this is.”

Cullen longed for her to use her magic or the dagger, but he cursed himself for not teaching her more. For not considering this a possibility. He viciously swiped at the vines around his ankle, wishing for the others. Only Bethany was on her feet, and he could see the strain on her face and the blood on her hands. She was crouched over someone - who? Hawke, he realized with rising dismay. 

“I’m not like you. I don’t need magic - you, you can’t do anything without it. It’s a crutch, and a weakness, and I don’t need it, I’m not a mage. I’ve always been better at using a bow - I shouldn’t have hesitated that day.” Cullen was nearly free. Almost there, just a little. “I won’t make that mistake again.” 

Please. Not again. He can’t watch someone else he cares about die. Tanner lifted the blade, and Cullen was halfway to his feet, already moving. 

Ophelia shook her head, and Cullen was close enough to see the look on her face. Scared and angry, lips quivering with the force of her emotions, but her eyes were determined. “You’re wrong. I don’t need magic either,” she said softly and shoved the dagger into his chest with a grunt of effort. Blood splashed, and she grit her teeth, dagger halted by the presence of hard, unrelenting bone. 

The feeling of magic washed over him too fast to halt it, flooding the clearing and sending his heart rattling against his chest. An old fear washed over him, potent and dangerous, but he forced it away, running. 

His hand fumbled for Ophelia’s arm, spinning them around and then down, his weight over her, as the clearing erupted in flames. 

Fire blasted through the air. He could feel the heat of it against his back, his armor burning where the heated metal touched his skin. Bethany and Ophelia cried for barriers in the same moment, and one washed over him like cool water. It eased the pain, but only just. Though he could feel the heat blaring against his back and the smoke stung his eyes, it occurred to him how alive he was. His heart was rattling in his chest, and Ophelia’s fingers were clutching his mantle. 

Neither were burning, neither were dying. Reason returned in a flash, and the flames flickered slowly, gone between one blink and the next. The barrier shattered, its job done. Smoke lingered, burning his eyes and tickling his nose. Cullen lifted himself up slowly, his hand wrapped tight around Ophelia’s, only dropping as her fingers flexed in his grip.

The snow was a melted slush, more mud than water, and the flames licking the trees slowly flickered out. Hawke was still unconscious, white hair singed. Alfonso and Rylen were slumped in place, pink-cheeked and unharmed. They were safe, this was little more than show. For what purpose, he didn’t-- His eyes caught it the same instant Ophelia gasped. 

The melted remains of Tanner’s sword were merging with the mush and snow, and the place where he once stood was little more than a patch of scorched earth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see why combining this chapter and the last chapter would have been... a little extreme. I'm relieved I made this choice, I fear I would have been disappointed in this chapter if I had posted it as one giant chunk - I had to rewrite a couple portions of it to better fit what I was imagining and I feel like it's stronger for the extra time I put into it! I am sad for the one ending scene lost, but I've put it into my unused snippets folder and maybe I'll incorporate it somewhere down the road (or the next chapter, as it turns out!). Action is not my strong suit, if you couldn't tell from reading this, but nonetheless I'm pleased with the result and I can only hope to get better with time. Let me know how it went, or if there's anything you recommend for writing action portions! This is, after all, something I'd like to improve on! 
> 
> There's a lot of Cullen development in this chapter, this chapter ended up being so long because I wanted to focus a little more on the mage/templar conflict and possible solutions than we saw in the game. It's a difficult subject, and often an angst fest, so I wanted to show that while Cullen has plenty of angst for this, he's also willing to take steps to fix it. One of my favorite moments to write was near the end when his fear of magic hit hard, but rather than attack, he chose to defend. Am I patting myself on the back?? Maybe, but the biggest fan of my writing is me (or at least that's what I'm attempting to teach myself). 
> 
> Updates have been moved to Thursday to better accommodate real life obligations! Apologies for the late hour of posting, I was gone most of the morning, then spent a while editing, then spent a while longer trying to find out how you put art into an author's note before I gave up, and, well, by then it was almost 10PM in my timezone. Hopefully a nice treat for people when they wake up! ♥ Thank you all for your comments last chapter, they absolutely made my day!!
> 
> (Also, if you're wondering when we leave Haven, hold tight because we're on our way!)


	14. Snow White I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition marches on the breach. Finally.

With the assassin gone - although still a living threat - Ophelia thought they would go for the breach immediately rather than risk someone else picking up where Tanner left. She was itching for a chance to finish this one way or another, and she thought the Inquisition would be happy to rid themselves of her, too. While no one blamed her for Tanner’s choices, she blamed herself for not killing him. 

She hadn’t thought herself capable of the thought, but as one day bled into another while Hawke rested, unwaking, and nightmares returned with a vengeance, she couldn’t help thinking it. Cullen’s dagger was gone, taken with Tanner on his flight. She knew there were dozens like it, and Cullen would bring her another if she asked, but it wouldn’t feel the same. She didn’t get many gifts, nor did she find people trusted her easily, and the dagger was a mixture of both. 

In the few hours after Tanner’s disappearance, she would reach for it at any loud noise. 

Not that it had done her much good. She had missed when it counted - and others paid the price. She frowned, shifting on the frozen steps outside the Chantry, the cold seeping through the thickest of her robes. The Inquisition wouldn’t move until Hawke awoke, and until then it was busy uncovering every stone they had left unturned since starting. None of it were things she could help with and she often found herself bounced from one person to the next, a never ending parade of the well-trusted inner circle. 

A cloak settled over her shoulders and Ophelia jolted, fingers twitching for the dagger and halting mid-motion. It was strange how comforting she had found its presence, the solid weight of it in her hand, and now it was gone. Peace of mind was just one of the many things he had stolen. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Cullen said. “You were shivering.” 

Her fingers bunched around the fabric, tightening it over her to block out the chill. “Was I? I didn’t notice, it always seems to be cold around here.” 

“I don’t imagine the snow helps you.” 

“I fear if I go anywhere else, people will stare or I will fall asleep. Has the Inquisitor awoken yet?” 

Cullen’s smile flickered and a grimace took its place. The smudge of purple beneath his eyes was more pronounced than before, and she didn’t have to ask what caused it. Tanner’s treachery ate at all of them, but none worse than him and Leliana. “No, nothing yet. Adan believes the sleeping potion will have run its course tonight and she should be on her feet tomorrow,” he said, sighing. “We will hopefully close the breach soon.” 

The advisors were working nonstop, attempting to keep things on track. Hawke might have been out, but the Inquisition would be ready. It was a lot more intricate than she imagined. She imagined they would send her up to the breach, amplify the mark, and watch as she wiggled her fingers as she did with rifts. 

The advisors discussed battle plans and tactics - and grimly they considered the possibility of failure and the succession of power should the advisors fall, too. Cullen ran the soldiers, the templars, and the mages through drills in preparation for the breach. Often, she found herself parked on the training grounds, a place where several trusted people could watch her, and she was amazed at the way the Inquisition shifted from a ragtag group of soldiers to something resembling an army. 

It wasn’t just them, either. Ophelia herself was instructed on everything that could possibly go wrong: from the very likely chance demons would single her out when she connected to the breach, or the very unlikely scenario that they were caught in an avalanche. There was a rendezvous spot if the plan fell apart and they had to retreat - the Inquisition would meet at a pre-established place to the east of the Breach, a midpoint between Haven and the breach itself. It wasn’t a place anyone was shown specifically, but rather a location everyone knew in near excruciating detail. 

Her head gave a strong twinge of pain just thinking about it. From the look on his face, she wasn’t the only one suffering from too much in so little time. She scooted over on the step and patted it with a free hand. 

Cullen blinked at her and then settled down slowly, as if afraid of sending her running. The smile he gave her was small, gentle, and it took several years of hardship off his face. 

“Are you alright?” he asked.

It was her turn to blink. 

He noticed her puzzlement and continued on carefully. “I haven’t had a moment to ask you about… everything we learned the other day.”

Two days since Tanner escaped. Two days since she discovered Fabian was dead. Two days since she discovered her child was a son - and two days since she discovered his family had sent him to Tevinter. The knowledge bothered her, and even worse was the fact she could do nothing about it. 

“Alfonso is working with Dorian to help. There is little we can do before the breach is closed,” she said, shrugging, arms crossing beneath her cloak, hands clutching her elbows. The anger and sadness were choking her, stealing the words she wished to say. All the while, Cullen sat patiently, letting her unravel them and when she did, her voice came out in a whisper steeped in more shame than anything. “I always thought he never looked, or he never cared.”

Cullen watched her, waiting for the rest, as if he didn’t have a thousand other things to do. 

“It didn’t occur to me that he did and that he paid a price for it. I thought if it couldn’t be our child then maybe… then maybe our son could be his son, so that he had one of us in his life. When he never left Ostwick, I didn’t think it was punishment, I thought it was refusal. He never told me, he just… remained indifferent, as if it didn’t matter,” she said, shaking her head. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“Me, too.” For her son, for her lover. They never would have the life she wanted for them, and she had accepted this fact a long time ago. 

Cullen shifted, uncomfortable, and she waited for the inevitable questions. Anyone who knew her son’s father was a templar would want to know more. She tensed, tapping her fingers together beneath the cloak, waiting for him to gather his courage. “You must miss him. Fabian, that is.” 

Not what she thought. Ophelia pondered it, but it had been a long time since she and Fabian were together, even prior to losing their son. The loss was different, as if time had allowed distance, and distance allowed clarity. His name wasn’t etched into her heart, and the news of his death was painful, but… not the sort of pain she expected to feel. Her imagination had painted it worse, or maybe she had grown numb to loss with all the things she witnessed these past few weeks.

Or perhaps she was broken. 

“No, not in a while. Whatever we were, I don’t think it was love anymore. I think… Sometimes it’s just… Some people are a buoy in the sea and you don’t realize it until you’re on dry land.” Her lips pursed with annoyance. “That makes no sense, I realize, but I don’t know how to describe it. We parted seas a long time ago.” 

“I understand.” 

For all their talks, it occurred to her how little she asked about him. It was always Ophelia’s future, Ophelia’s pain, Ophelia’s doubts. She scooted towards him, mapping out what she wanted to say, head tilting to look up at him, taking in the sharpness of his face, the scar over his lip, and the softness of his eyes. It was the closest she had been to him without being in a dire situation.

The questions spluttered away, gone, and she blurted out a different one instead. “Did you have someone like that?” She didn’t know why she wanted to know, but it seemed important, her breath held as she waited. 

“It never reached the level of you and yours, but… yes, there was something once. Or there could have been, if we had met under other circumstances,” he said, surprised. He thought for a moment, the struggle to talk at war with something else, she could see it in his eyes. Before she could take it back, he found something to say: “She was a good woman. I don’t know if she was my buoy, as you say, or if I was hers, but there was something there. I don’t know what would have become of it in the end.” 

“What happened to her? Er, them?”

Cullen offered her a faint smile, but there was little happiness behind it. “Her name was Solona.” A shadow crossed his eyes, and he continued with tremendous effort. “A maleficar killed her a long time ago.” 

She had wondered how the only thing he could say to her words was an apology, but she understood a little more now. Carefully, and slowly, Ophelia fumbled a hand free from her cloak and found his. He inhaled sharply, looking at her. His gauntlet was cold against her fingers, but the grip on her hand was solid and the strength in it brought its own warmth. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, watching their entwined hands. It wasn’t the dagger, but maybe it wasn’t the dagger itself that brought her comfort. “There was never anyone else?” 

“Not for a while. There were other things beyond her loss, and it was a long while before my head was in a place to properly consider it. My duties take priority now, or they should,” he said.

“Now you’ve done it, Jim will walk by with a report any second now.” 

Her quip was rewarded with a genuine smile. She could see it reaching his eyes, easing the shadows from it. “Thankfully, no, I managed to send him off on a task that should last him for a while yet.” 

“You could use the rest,” she agreed. 

“I’ll be fine. I wanted to check-- That is, I wanted to see if you were alright without someone requiring my attention.” His freehand went to the back of his neck, heat flaring to life in his cheeks and chased away by the bitter cold. She fought back a smile, a flutter of warmth falling over her, a balm against the ice attempting to seep through her since Tanner’s revelations. When was the last time she felt properly warm and safe? 

“Thank you. For saving me.” 

“Always.” It felt like a promise. 

Their hands stayed locked. His presence made her feel blessedly normal, and she tried to focus on their hands instead. Slowly, their fingers slipped apart, and she tucked her own back into the warmth of the blanket and his own settled on the step between them. 

He heaved a sigh. “I should return,” he murmured. 

He didn’t look well rested and if she thought about it, she couldn’t recall the last time he took a true break. Certainly not where she could see, and she admitted, face flushing, to watching him a great deal more than strictly professional or friendly. His first time to rest and he spent it with her. Worrying over her. So much of their time together was worrying about things, Ophelia wanted him to have a moment without it.

Whenever Hawke awoke, they would close the breach and afterwards, she might not have an excuse to talk to him any longer.

Once, she might have found the melancholy flooding her to be strange, but it was less surprising as time went on. He was important to her, and it was risky how much she enjoyed his presence. The safest thing to do would be leaving it alone and pretending these warm feelings didn’t exist. It hadn’t ever worked before, but, Maker please, let it work now. 

There was more at stake than just her and her pesky emotions. There was her son and the ever approaching question of her future. There was his career, his life, and the experience he didn’t talk about, but nonetheless haunted his eyes. 

A smarter woman would spare them the agony. 

His brow furrowed as he sunk into his own thoughts, gaze fixed on a point in the distance. 

Emotions or not, she didn’t want to leave him alone in whatever dark memories swirled in his eyes. Everything else she could figure out later, she decided, squeezing her hands together to keep from reaching out. Ophelia stood up, shaking the blanket to rid it of the thin layer of snow coating it. She held a hand out to him and he took it, looking bemused. “What do you do for fun? It can’t be all training, sparring, and calibrating,” she said, pulling him to his feet. He didn’t need the help, but he was much too polite to say so. 

“I play chess when I can spare the time. It isn’t often that I find the time to play anymore.”

“Well,” she said, looking around. Haven was still eating, and still quiet. Her eyes returned to him, amused. “You can spare time now perhaps? I haven’t played in a long while and if you don’t mind reteaching me the moves, I think we deserve not to think for a little while.” 

Cullen laughed, the tightening around his eyes lightening some. Not fully gone, but she expected it would take more to remove the weariness from him entirely. “I’m not sure what type of chess you’ve been playing, but there’s a great deal of thinking involved in this version.”

“I might not have played in a while, but I remember winning in my sleep. You’ll find I’m a much more difficult adversary at this than I am in any of your training.”

“We shall have to see. I have a board in my tent. Join me?” 

A few weeks ago, they might have blushed, but amusement sparkled in his eyes now. It was hard to find chatter about tents brazen when she had slept in it more times than strictly professional. 

None of their friendship was very professional as it turned out. 

“You’re on,” she said, smiling, pleased with herself at the sidelong look and smile he sent her. 

…

…

The quiet didn’t last. In the middle of their second game, Hawke awoke and she didn’t hesitate to break the restrictions Adan placed on her. Within minutes of her awakening, she was on her feet, ordering preparations for departure in the morning. It wasn’t what any of the advisors preferred, nor did Adan or Solas approve of her charging full steam ahead, but Hawke overruled them. 

Hawke attached herself to Ophelia’s side and refused to budge, deciding if they didn’t close the breach soon, one or both of them would die before they did. It wasn’t ideal for Ophelia’s skyrocketing nerves, but she couldn’t deny how much easier she slept on the cot in Hawke’s cabin than she did in a room without a door. 

When morning came, Hawke hadn’t changed her mind and her zeal washed over the Inquisition, dragging them into the same enthusiastic mood as their Inquisitor. Delaying it any longer was counterproductive to everything they had bled for so far, or so Hawke told anyone who asked.

Ophelia found herself torn between anticipation of ending the threat looming over their heads and dread for what would come after. It was hard to process anything, and she barely acknowledged Hawke on their walk to the gates. Horses were lined up, waiting. Her heart tightened with nerves.

She was no more settled in her emotions when Alfonso slid up to her. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, looking between her and Hawke as though unsure of who to appeal. 

“Need something?” Hawke asked.

His hand landed on Ophelia’s shoulder. For her, or for him, she didn’t know. “I’m a templar, I can still come along. You don’t have to be alone there, and a weak leg isn’t going to impede anything too badly!” His cheer wasn’t up to its usual muster.

“You can’t even walk without a cane, Alfonso,” she said, tapping idly against the staff she was using for the journey. 

“I could get a cane like father’s with a dagger in the hilt.” 

“And, what, stab yourself with it?” Hawke said, amused. Her pale hair was singed at the bottom, the ends looking black, and a cut on her face would leave a crescent scar around her left eye. If any of her previous wounds bothered her, she didn’t show it. “Tell you what, if you can do a handstand right now in your armor, I’ll let you come along. Go on, I would love to see this, we could all use a laugh before we leave to face certain doom.”

Alfonso snorted, not dignifying her words with an attempt at her dare. Ophelia thanked the Maker for small mercies. “Only a handstand while wearing heavy armor? Would you like me to juggle while I’m at it?” 

Hawke’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, can you?” 

“I don’t think I’ve tried since I was a child, but the memory should still be there.”

“Will you lob oranges at the breach then, or can you learn how to juggle swords before we leave?” 

Alfonso shook his head and his attention returned to Ophelia. “I’m your champion, you can’t leave me here, I signed up to be your shield and sword,” he said, the cheerfulness gone from his voice. She imagined this was her brother as a templar and a soldier, not the playful man she saw everywhere else. 

Ophelia sighed. “I promised after the breach we would talk. How can we do that if you die on the way up there? We don’t know what the breach will spit out at us.”

“I don’t think that’s going to help us, Trevleyan,” Hawke pointed out when Alfonso ran a frustrated hand through his hair. She studied him for a moment longer, pale blue eyes searching for something in his face. “I’m a champion too, you know.” 

Puzzled, he nodded. “I do, I came from Starkhaven to help your remaining people clean up.” 

“I’ll be her champion for the breach. Stay here so you can fix yourself up and do it the rest of the time - I’m a one hit wonder,” she said, grinning. “She’ll need all the help she can get when we come back and the Chantry decides it doesn’t need us anymore.” 

Ophelia flinched. “Inquisitor…”

Hawke grimaced. “Sorry. But still, I’ve got this, go make sure you’re ready for a fight when we return.”

Alfonso seemed ready to argue more and a stableboy bringing over a horse for Hawke and Ophelia was the only thing to stop him. His face twitched, and his mouth opened, a war of manners raging in his eyes. She knew which of them won when he grimaced. “Very well, champion, I’m counting on you.”

“No pressure or anything, right?” Hawke said with her trademark laugh. With his own sense of humor, Ophelia watched her brother for his own answering smile. It didn’t budge. 

“Only the pressure you need to make sure my little sister comes back in one piece and not two,” he said, sighing. 

Hawke stared, surprised, and Ophelia didn’t blame her. It wasn’t like him to miss up a chance to tease or banter. Her shrewd gaze lingered on him, as if seeing something she hadn’t noticed before. Ophelia imagined it was the same thing she noticed: that her brother was more than his cheerful exterior. “As you say. I haven’t let her get hurt before now much.” 

“I think ‘much’ is what worries me, Inquisitor.”

“I think if I’m your temporary replacement, Tilda works.” 

“Tilda, then,” he said, softening a fraction,. Alfonso turned to her, arms held open, and Ophelia hesitated for a second before a storm of What If’s descended on her head. What if this was the last time she saw him? What if the breach swallowed her up when it closed? What if they took her straight from the breach to the gallow? She swallowed, stepping into the circle of his arms, and he half-lifted her off her feet, his arms trembling. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself or me,” she said, but didn’t pull away. 

He ignored her, arms tightening. It made her think of their childhood and the times where death and magic were a long distant threat. She held onto him tightly. She promised herself if she came back, she wouldn’t let her brother go without a fight. “Be safe, little sister. Don’t let the breach drag you into the depths, I don’t want to tell my nephew I got beat up by a tree and his mother got eaten by the sky because of it.” 

He let her feet drop, though she couldn’t tell if that was the end of his strength or the end of his affection. The cheerful smile was back on his face and he ruffled her hair. “Let’s go, before they leave without you.” Alfonso dragged her over to the horse and helped her up, giving her a thumbs up as she followed the others.

As she guided her horse towards the gate, sandwiched between Hawke and Cassandra, she heard him call: “Be safe.” 

…

...

It was a solemn and worried progress away from Haven, their apprehension growing louder and louder the further away they drew, as if the breach was amplifying all their combined worries. Ophelia wasn’t immune to the effects and her fingers were tight around her reins, knuckles pale from force. 

A quiet voice hummed, too quiet over the clopping of many feet echoed through her ears, but the people nearest them caught it. The noise spread, a lit torch passing from person to person, and the tension lifted fraction by fraction. They sang as they walked. Before long, the words flew back to her. They sang of the Maker, of the people picked up and left behind along the way, and of the people driving this march onward. It was neither solemn or joyful, but an anticipation that left them all shaking.

They didn’t say it, but she got the message all the same: it was finally here, it was finally time. They would be free of the breach and one step closer to safety. When they came to a stop several hours later, everyone let out a collective breath, staring up at the swirling mess above them and the Temple of Sacred Ashes, close enough to touch.

A shiver was trickling down her spine, originating from the mark in her hand - she wondered if the breach knew its end was near. 

Hawke brought her horse forward and her voice captured their attention. “This is the last night that it will haunt us. I don’t know what we will face - this is a water no one has ever dared touch before now - but for those of you who believe, the Maker guided us here and He will help us end it. If you do not believe, then trust the people around you and the people who have brought us here. We won’t falter.” 

Snow fell around them softly, settling on hair and helmets like little white caps, and she saw the hope and determination on their faces. The snow didn’t bother any of them, nor did the biting cold make anyone flinch as they slung themselves off their horses, as if the fire built on their march and prodded by Hawke was keeping them warm. 

She swiped some off her cheeks, unable to tear her eyes away from the breach, unable to find solace in the songs and hopes of others. 

“You are worried, aren’t you?” Cassandra was standing next to her, watching not her but the people around them. Her back was straight, and her eyes were proud. The snow clung to her hair, the black braid dotted with white, looking like her hair was bound with stardust. The ice didn’t melt, and Ophelia of several months ago would not be surprised if the woman herself was made of ice. But over the last few weeks, she had come to realize Cassandra wasn’t so cold as she believed. Passionate and fiery, with an ire reserved for people who deserved it. 

Ophelia didn’t blame her anymore, though she hadn’t realized it until right this moment. It was hard to hold a grudge when magic was squeezing your hand. Her last time walking up the breach felt like a march to her death - now she thought the uncertainty was worse. 

Maybe she survived. Maybe she became tranquil. Maybe she died. Maybe she simply lost her arm.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

“Herald?” Cassandra asked, tentative. 

She blinked, jerked out of her thoughts. “You called me Herald.” 

Cassandra looked uncomfortable. “I, yes. I have had time to think - and people to speak with about it. I was too quick to judge you and perhaps that was a mistake. I do not wish this to end without you knowing that you have been a valuable ally.” 

It didn’t make her feel any better. If Cassandra worried about their future chances to talk, then only a fool would ignore it. Her words punctured the worry tying her into knots and she mustered a smile. “Thank you, Cassandra.” 

She nodded and marched off to where Varric stood, looking less battle hardened the moment he started speaking. Their voices were too low to catch, but the normalcy of it helped settle her further. 

She could do this. Even if she had a choice in the matter, she wanted to do this. Everything she had done so far was for closing the breach, for giving her son a future without this held over his head. Hawke walked back to her with a short nod, a signal for them to begin filing into the temple, and Ophelia caught her elbow before she could walk away.

“Trevelyan?” 

“Will you do something for me?” she asked seriously. “If I don’t make this out of here, tell my brother he can make it up to me if he goes to Tevinter for him.” 

Hawke frowned. “For him?”

“He’ll know who I mean. And… make sure Cullen takes a break once in a while.” 

She half-hoped Hawke would laugh that signature laugh and tell her she was being silly, that her dying was a miniscule possibility, but Hawke didn’t. Her lips stayed down, slightly parted, and her eyes were blue like the sky, filling with sorrow, and her hand reached out, closing over Ophelia’s shoulder. “I will,” she said. 

It was only a moment, but it was enough. 

Hawke led them through the snow to the highest point of the temple. 

The sky was dark and rumbling in the precursor of a storm. Sinister clouds twisted like a snake and in the center, a light shone like a sparking, green sun. Before, it could have been a trick of the eye, something your mind could ignore, but there was no mistaking this for anything else. She hadn’t stood so close to it in months, and it made her feel cold and small, a small rock against a tsunami. 

She didn’t stand a chance.

She was going to die. 

If she didn’t do it now, she didn’t know if she could at all. Their people filed into place seamlessly, the drills and practice paying off, and she waited for only a second to catch her breath before nodding.

“Do it,” Ophelia said quietly, pulling off her glove. It fell to the ground, the wind catching it and yanking it away, but she didn’t notice it, caught in the wave of magic she could feel the mages channeling together, stronger than they had ever done alone. The templars, further away to avoid purging their allies, were in position, eyes determined. 

“Now!” Hawke yelled.

Light from her hand connected with the breach. The magic yanked around her midsection, a hook around her innards trying to drag her closer, and she locked her legs, attempting to withstand it. She breathed through it shallowly. 

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t--

Magic touched her, surrounding her, a fire that didn’t burn and the pressure on her chest eased. She could do this, she could--

The breach flared, as it hadn’t done since she closed it. Her hand throbbed, pain flaring through every muscle of her body. Her breaths came in ragged gasps. Whimpers were coming from behind her, the mages fighting their own fatigue. She couldn’t tell how long she and the breach were connected, lost as she was in the maelstrom.

She couldn’t do it--

She couldn’t--

She cried out as pain shot down her arm and through the mark. The breach shuddered, relently slowly and unwillingly, a beast that wouldn’t stop without a fight, and jagged shards were shining from it like spikes. She gripped her hand into a fist, her entire body trembling with the terrible power coiling in her veins, seeping life for sustenance as her mana faded. She yanked her hand down as though pulling a door closed. 

A loud crack filled the air and a blast of magic knocked her off her feet. Pained cries rang out around her. 

She lay on the floor, panting, clenching her wrist, eyes closed tightly against the growing pain. A figure crouched beside her, a gauntleted hand running over arm and hand for wounds, then supporting her back when they found none. Her eyes opened slowly to see Cullen’s worried face over her, one that broke into a smile of relief as their eyes caught. He helped her to her feet as a dull roar sounded in the background.

It took her a second to realize it was cheers.

…

…

“I can’t believe I missed it,” said Alfonso, nursing a mug of ale. The group had returned to Haven post-haste, but still hadn’t returned to Haven until near evening. Since their return, a celebration had been in full swing. Ale was passed around and music played softly as people danced around the camp, their duties momentarily forgotten. Since then, Alfonso had sat at Varric’s usual fire in a state of disbelief, not because the deed was done, but because he hadn’t been there to see it at all. 

At Ophelia’s snort, he held his mug out to her, but she shook her head, focused on maintaining a steady flow of mana to the wound on his leg. He shifted, trying to get comfortable. “This experiment of yours isn’t going to end with my leg being amputated, is it? I have a lot of respect for the people who can manage with a loss of limb, but I am partial to the idea of letting it heal without magic as people say it will.” 

“You have nothing to fear, she is doing well,” Bethany said with a giggle, sitting behind Ophelia. Her own mug was perilously low and the flush on her cheeks made Ophelia think it was time to stop healing. She sighed, letting the magic fade and setting her stuff aside. Her spotter wasn’t fully capable of stopping Ophelia from maiming her brother’s leg in an attempt to heal the muscles. Healing, after all, wasn’t her strong suit, but she had plenty of time to work on it. 

Time seemed foreign. More tangible than it was prior to closing the breach, but certainly as far away. 

“It wasn’t as pleasant as the stories say,” Cassandra said reproachfully, sitting as far from the roaring fire as possible. Sometime between closing the breach and arriving in Haven, she and Varric had argued about something, and Cassandra didn’t explain the details to it enough, but refused to sit too close to him. Varric was unconcerned, scribbling on a piece of vellum and only poking his head up as Cassandra spoke. “A few people fainted. Overexerted.” 

“There was a lot of magic,” Ophelia said quietly, shaking the ache out of her fingers and moving off the floor. The mark on her hand still burned, and using magic was the only thing keeping it from throbbing. “I’m not surprised people were hurt, but I am relieved no one is dead.” Herself included. If she was faster, or stronger, or the mark wasn’t so dang painful, maybe they wouldn’t have any injuries, or at least that was the idea she heard from quiet murmurs.

Closing the breach wasn’t enough to completely endear people to her, but the inner circle seemed content with her presence and her work. None of them were discussing sending her to the Chantry, as Chancellor Roderick was attempting to do, and she took safety where she could find it. 

“Chin up, you did well,” Alfonso said. “Or so I heard.” 

Varric laughed. “It was a sight to behold. I’ll tell you all about it.” 

Alfonso and Bethany scooted towards the dwarf. Neither had been at the breach, and both were keen to know everything about it, as Hawke had postponed an official debriefing on the whole process until after the celebrations were over. Cassandra, though she was there, came closer, ire forgotten to the surprise of no one in light of Varric telling a story

Ophelia stood up and slipped away in the middle of his tales. No one looked twice at her, and she was surprised at how strange it was to be alone for the first time… Well, the first time since the Inquisition had scooped her up again. She sucked in a deep breath, the cold seeping into her lungs and pushing away the lingering magical ache, and exhaled, a puff of white air in front of her lips. 

Her steps brought her to a low wall separating one hill of Haven from the other and she climbed on top of it, drawing her knees up and dropping her chin on them. Peace, and quiet. And worry returning with a vengeance. She was back in Haven and she was alive, two things she hadn’t thought possible when she started up the slope to the breach. 

No word on her arrest was, perhaps, worse than concrete answers. She couldn’t quite celebrate being alive if she was going to die in a couple hours. 

There was the crunch of snow behind her and she scooted over on the ledge instinctively. Only one person walked that way, and she recognized the shadow as it fell over her. Cullen sank down beside her with a murmur of thanks. 

“You aren’t amused by the tales then?”

She blinked. “What?”

“According to Jim, we were lucky to survive the dragon.” 

“What dragon?” she asked, bewildered. 

“I had that question as well,” he said with a quiet laugh. “But I’ve been told I was quite heroic while slaying it and you shielded the faithful single-handedly.”

Ophelia laughed. “Slay a lot of dragons, do you?” 

“I stumbled across a den of drakes while I was in Kirkwall - the Bone Pit is an unfortunate place, I pity whoever owns it - but that is the extent of my dragon killing,” he said. He smiled, gentle, watching her with soft eyes. 

She cleared her throat, tucking hair behind her ear. 

“What future do you see for yourself?” he asked abruptly.

“I ask that question myself. I don’t know, I thought I would die to the breach and, if not the breach, to whatever decision the Chantry will make for me. I haven’t thought too much about it.” Ophelia didn’t want to think of doom and gloom. With Cullen beside her, perhaps for the last time, she didn’t want to waste it thinking about all the things that could go wrong. She lifted her head, a smile playing on her lips, and he returned it, a little bemused at the shift in her demeanor. “I see myself with warm gloves and a new cloak.” 

“I feel as though I should have expected warmth to take a priority,” he said, amused. “The mountain air hasn’t grown on you in all your time here.”

“It’s very cold,” she defended. “Not all of us can have a fur mantle.”

“I am sure we could make arrangements to find you one of your own, Josephine will find something that suits you. Functional, and warm,” he added, lips twitching, no doubt in response to the look on her face. His face shifted, a look of hesitation on his face and then he settled, drawing something from his pocket. “Until then, perhaps these will alleviate some of the cold.” 

It was her gloves, the ones she had dropped on the mountain, positive she wouldn’t need them when all was done. The wind had taken them, and she had thought it a sign from the Maker. When the Maker hadn’t seen fit to let her pass on, she had looked for them and not found them among the temple’s floor. Ophelia reached out for them, her hands brushing his. They were threadcare, and carefully patched in several places, but they were hers. “I thought they had been buried underneath the snow,” she admitted, fingers clenching them. 

“No. I caught them when they fell, I thought you’d want them again,” he said. 

She held them to her chest. “How did you know?” 

“Josephine brought you new gloves after you returned from the Hinterlands, and yet you continued to wear them. I thought you were important - I had meant to give them to you when we closed the breach, but I was… otherwise occupied for a time,” he said, a touch of hesitancy returning, his head ducking down a fraction. It was a peculiar response, but Ophelia ignored it, placing her gloves hands over his. 

The second time in as many days to hold his hand. She was getting reckless, and yet she couldn’t find it in herself to stop. 

“My parents gave them to me before I was taken to the circle, they are some of the last things I have from them. I’ve patched them up so many times, none of the thread is probably the original,” she said with a little laugh. “I almost threw them away so many times, but I always held on. Maybe I knew somehow I would need them to hide this.” 

Ophelia held her free hand out, where her mark was there, quiet and subdued. In their talking, the pain had faded. She hoped it wasn’t a momentary thing, she didn’t know if she could spend the rest of her life with this buzzing. 

“Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes. I wonder if I’ll have it the rest of my life.” The thought worried her, and she slid the gloves on. The mark was out of sight, but not forgotten. 

“There’s a great many rifts to close still, it’ll be useful,” he said.

“Are you optimistic?” 

“For you? I will try.” 

Her heart skipped a beat, and she looked up at him. He was watching her again with that soft look, and his fingers twitched beneath her hand, as if to draw away. She shifted, lightening her grip, reluctant to part, and his hand tightened on hers. Did she dare? Her lips parted, trying to speak, but only managing a quiet “Cullen” before he stood up abruptly and walked a little bit away, frowning.

She bit her lip. “Cullen?” 

He didn’t respond, tension radiating from him. His hand fell onto the pommel of his sword, and Ophelia. Perhaps she was wrong, perhaps she hadn’t read the situation right, but… No, even if she had read it wrong, even if Cullen didn’t feel a fraction of the same things for her, she knew he wouldn’t hurt. There was something else wrong, something she couldn’t see. 

Ophelia slid off the wall, her footsteps loud in the snow as she approached him. It occurred to her the music had long stopped, but she couldn’t tell when. 

She opened her mouth to ask - and warning bells clang through Haven. 


	15. Snow White II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which several eyes open - and one close.

"What is?" she asked, eyes shooting to his face. The light of the last few minutes was gone from his eyes. Cullen stood, eyes fastening on a point further into Haven.

"Nothing good," he said, holding out his hand to her. "Come, we need to find out what's wrong." She had no intentions of denying him and she caught his hand, letting him pull her onto her feet. In an instant, his face shifted, the commander in him taking over, as if her touch was the jolt to kick him into action.

They ran, passing the children running for the Chantry and the soldiers scrambling for weapons. Nothing good, she agreed internally. She ran faster, keeping up with his longer strides, winded as they reached the gate. A grim-faced Hawke stood around her friends, lips pressed together into a thin line, a look of uncertainty and annoyance on her face Ophelia had never seen before. Hawke heard their approach and relief shone in her eyes. "Good, you're both alright. Merrill, Varric, find Sera and support my archers. Fenris, go with them and protect their backs," she ordered. "Isabela, Bethany, stay with me."

It was telling that none of her friends commented, all of them scattering between one blink and the next until only a few of them remained. Her heart tightened with unease, the warning bells still ringing in her ears.

"What's happening?" Ophelia asked, reaching for the staff on her back, frowning at its absence. She had left it at the fire after healing Alfonso, but… Her eyes landed on the spot, no sign of her staff anywhere around the pit. No staff, no dagger, and- She processed Hawke's words, her eyes widening. "We're under attack?"

"By who?" Josephine appeared with Leliana on her heels, the former staring off into the distance. Ophelia followed her gaze, gasping. Torches lit the mountain side an eerie orange, and a sea of people streamed down the slopes. There was no mistaking their path: the only thing between them and Haven was a frozen lake dotted with trees.

"None," Cullen said tightly, holding out a looking glass for Hawke. She waved it off to Leliana, face hard and eyes set. "I recognize a face there. Samson, he was a templar in Kirkwall. Is this where the others went from Therinfal?" Tension riddled his shoulders, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Bethany mirrored him, concern creasing her face. Whoever Samson was, they didn't like the idea of his reappearance.

"He's still alive?" Hawke asked, baffled. "Lyrium withdrawal wasn't treating him well last I saw him. He had one leg in death's door, and the other on a bad glyph, and now he's leading an army? How did two templars from Kirkwall wind up in this?" Her arms flung out, gesturing the air, exasperation filling her voice.

Cullen winced.

"It doesn't matter who is leading them, they are right on top of us. We don't have the manpower or the resources to handle them now, not in our current condition," Josephine said, holding her clipboard like a shield to her chest. "We should retreat."

"Where would we go? We're on a mountain in the middle of nowhere, our closest allies are days away."

Ophelia froze as the truth if it sunk in. They were either wounded, drunk, or didn't know one end of the sword from the other, and there was nowhere to go. Flee, that's what she should do, and she swallowed that down, too. People needed her here. "We need a plan. Any plan," she said, eyes lingering on the people around them. "There's no time for anything else."

Leliana eyed her a moment, thoughtful, and then nodded in agreement. "She's right."

"Enemy inbound!" shouted a lookout from the wall, his pale cheeks pink with his fading drinks and his large eyes wider with fear. In the next instant, he collapsed, an arrow lodged into his chest.

Cullen reacted first, drawing himself to his full height. His hand disengaged from hers, though she hadn't realized how tightly she was squeezing it until it was gone. Anchor gone, she crossed her arms tightly. "Get people on the trebuchets. Haven is no fortress, if we want to win this, we must control the battle." Hawke nodded and Cullen whistled over the crowd, directing people to their stations. Relieved for something to do, people sprang into action.

Cullen lingered near her, his presence steadying and the strength in his voice as he issued commands made her feel safe. Made her feel certain they could win this. His eyes shot to her, concern remaining. "You have no weapon," he said with alarm, eyes darting around and landing on Seggrit's table. Several staffs lined the table, a little worse for wear, and Cullen snatched one. "Here. You'll need something."

She accepted it. Her magic hesitated to align with it, but like her, it was resigned to whatever it could hold. "This feels familiar. You have a habit of giving me weapons I'll later lose." It was a feeble attempt at lightness, and the smile she attempted was a grimace. This… all of it seemed beyond her abilities and she could only watch helplessly with the other advisors as their meager forces met their next foe.

They would win, none of them would die here.

"We didn't come this far to fall now," he said.

Her fingers tightened around her elbows, eyes fixed on the lights growing closer and closer. Some were already outside Haven, fighting and clashing. "Did I speak aloud?"

He softened, head shaking. "No, but I could see it on your face. They might outnumber us, but we have-" He stopped. She turned slightly, confused, but he was already waving down Rylen and Hawke. "Bring the mountain on their heads. We catch the bulk in a slide, we'll have this. They won't have the numbers to overwhelm us. Rylen and I will focus on pushing them back. Hawke, my men will help you on the trebuchet."

"Volunteering me for the hard job? I always knew you liked Rylen more," Hawke quipped, whistling lightly to draw Isabela and Bethany's attention. "Herald, you're with me then, we'll need another."

Ophelia bit her lip, halting the protest before it could come. No, this was better. Loathe as she did leaving the safety of Cullen's presence, she didn't want to hide. She wanted to protect, too. "I'll watch your backs."

"They do have nice backsides," Isabela said with a grin, earning a shoulder bump from Bethany.

Cullen didn't argue, only a stiffness to his eyes betraying his unease. "Stay safe," he said, as if her job was harder. As if she was the one fighting with little more than a sword and a shield. Both seemed flimsy, but Ophelia swallowed back her nerves and worries, nodding. Cullen knew how to hold his own, she trusted him.

He wouldn't die, nor would she.

She didn't take her eyes off of Cullen as he pushed the gate open, determination making his eyes glint in the waning light. The Inquisition spilled out onto the snow, sword meeting sword in a clash of metal grating on her ears.

"Let's go, I want this over before dawn. I have a meeting tomorrow," said Hawke, marching off.

…

...

"No wonder the numbers never added up," Hawke said as they ran, sounding as though this were little more than a skirmish in the Hinterlands. "Half the damn templars and mages must have joined Samson."

Ophelia didn't know how she had the air to waste on talking. Her own lungs were constricting and her arms shook with weariness. Worse, she could still see firelight and a stream of people fighting all around her. The enemy seemed neverending as they fought their way from the northern trebuchet to the southern.

"When you said this would be a party, I didn't think it would be this type," Isabela said with a shake of her head. Ophelia shot her a look, baffled at how the woman didn't look the slightest bit winded and her hair was still neat beneath her impossibly still present admiral hat. "The templars and the mages decided to fight us rather than each other? How charming."

"They don't seem normal," Bethany said grimly.

"No? What are they- Oh!" Isabela let out a gasp as Bethany yanked her aside. A throwing dagger fell into the snow where Isabela stood, and the two women fell over in a flailing of limbs.

Hawke sighed, exasperated, stabbing the air blindly and catching a templar in the gut. Ophelia tried not to be too relieved for the chance to catch her breath and stopped beside them.

"Good eye, sweetness," Isabela said, reaching up to push Bethany's hair away from her face from her position beneath her. Bethany was, surprisingly, a little pink in the cheeks, darker at the touch.

Ophelia shot Hawke a questioning look and she shrugged. Hawke clapped her hands together. "Let's go, ladies, you can confess your undying love another time."

Both spluttered, but didn't argue as Hawke hefted them to their feet and neither said another word. Ophelia swallowed back a groan, and ran with them.

Three lone Inquisition soldiers and Dara were attempting to hold the southern trebuchet. Attempting, and failing from the bodies scattered in the scarlet snow. Ophelia swallowed back nausea as a blank faced mage struck down one of the Inquisition soldiers in a spray of blood. It wasn't the templars only as Ophelia feared, but a mix of mages and templar who fought with an inhumane ferocity. An unearthly glow hung about their features, casting them in a red light. Red lyrium, without a doubt, and the dark future flickered to life between blinks.

There was no time for flinching, though. Her barriers were depleted almost the instant she cast them as Ophelia, Hawke, Isabela, and Bethany battled it out with the red templars and mages.

A shield caught Bethany in the head, sending her sprawling into the ground and her staff rolling out of her reach. She didn't move. "Bethany!" Hawke screamed, blue eyes wide with fear. Her charge over to her sister halted as vines crept from the ground, gripping her legs. Her arms windmilled for balance. "Bethany!" She slashed at the vines, and Isabela popped into view near her, stabbing a mage in the back before they could successfully dispatch Hawke, too.

Ophelia flung a barrier over all of them, tossing a bolt of lightning at the enemies near Bethany. It scattered them, sending them further away from Bethany - and attracting their attention to Ophelia instead. Not ideal, but…

"Hawke, get Bethany." Ophelia ran to the other side of the trebuchet, putting some distance between herself and Bethany, bringing them with her. Away from friends, too. She knew one trick for fighting enemies - one she couldn't do around allies. Or with any large degree of success, she thought with a grimace.

She slashed through the air with her staff and a wide circle crashed around a small crowd of red templars and mages, halting their approach. One reached out a hand, and a jolt of lightning sent them sprawling back into their comrades. An arrow caught one of the templars in the gap of their armor, and the templar collapsed in a heap.

"You've been holding out on me, Herald!" said Dara, standing above her on the trebuchet.

"I'm not completely hopeless, just…" She hesitated, unsure of how to explain it. "I'm not a good fighter, I'm a good trapper." Her spell dissipated and a sword swung for her head. Yelping, heart racing, she dodged out of the way.

Dara jumped off the platform, his bow gone and replaced with his sword. One slash, and the enemy fell. A throwing dagger from Isabela caught the other, and the fighting ended without pause.

"Fire," Hawke ordered. Her eyes glinted with anger as she kept an arm firmly around Bethany's waist, her sister's arm slung around her neck. Ophelia hurried over, mana pooling on her hands and hesitating only a moment. Hawke looked at her and said simply, "Do it."

She poured what magic she had left into healing the wound on Bethany's head. It didn't close, but the bleeding slowed and her cheeks gained some color again.

The mountain rocked as the trebuchet collided with it. They waited with baited breath, and Ophelia's nerves only settled as the snow rumbled down the mountain. Lights flickered and died, figures stumbling and falling, until only a few remained.

"We did it," Isabela said, surprised. "That was easy."

The snow was more red than white, and Ophelia couldn't agree with the ease of it. People paid for it, and she averted her eyes from the blood, stomach clenching.

Hawke groaned. "Please, every time someone says that, something goes wrong."

A shadow crossed the sky, blotting out the sliver of light left from the setting sun. Dara hopped off the trebuchet, his eyes widening. "Dragon!"

"Oh, for the love of Andraste," Hawke breathed, bravado and humor gone, stilling as a dragon soared overhead. Ophelia had never seen one so close, and she sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of it. The dragon swooped around, neck constricting. Ophelia tossed up a barrier without thought.

A ball of flames burst from the dragon and the trebuchet shattered in a rain of scorched wood and ash. The blast sent everyone sprawling across the snow, head over heels. The dragon screeched overhead. To her ringing ears, it sounded like laughter.

"Maker, the men…" Dara whispered, pushing up to his feet. He took a stumbling step towards the trebuchet, but their men were long gone. Hawke swore loudly.

Ophelia's throat tightened.

Above their heads, the dragon rained fire.

"Stop gawking and run!" Isabela yelled.

Slipping and sliding through the snow, they fled, the victory slipping through their fingers.

…

...

The doors to the Chantry burst open, a fresh wave of people flooding inside. Her brother wasn't among them nor was there any sign of Cullen. Her heart raced a little faster, lips pressing together. She could hear the screeching of the dragon overhead, and she could hear the sounds of fighting outside the doors. Inquisition soldiers were holding out, trying to give people time to get inside.

Neither sounds were calming her tightly wound nerves. The dragon roared, rattling the glass windows, and she flinched.

"He'll come in," Bethany murmured from her position on the floor. A healer was kneeling over her, stitching together the wound on her head until another mage could come along to heal it properly. There weren't enough healing mages to go around and they'd agreed Ophelia, with her rudimentary skills, would do more harm than good if she tried again. Every wince Bethany made as the healer worked made Ophelia vow to practice more if they made it out of here. Still, Bethany tried to smile. "My sister is stubborn, she won't rest until everyone is in here."

"You must worry about her," she said, pushing the images of blood and death from her head. She tried not to imagine what fate awaited her loved ones regardless of whether they stood inside the Chantry or not. What hope did they have against a dragon?

The thoughts came anyway. Ophelia scooted closer to Bethany, offering a hand to squeeze while the wound was stitched.

Fumbling, Bethany caught and held, wincing as a sharp tug took her breath away. When it faded, she replied, "Always. She's my big sister, and she's always protected me, but she's human as the rest of us, no matter what she thinks."

Ophelia was guilty of the thinking Hawke was something else, too. She had imagined Hawke an immovable boulder, a woman who sprouted into being with scars, wit, and a sword in her hand. Stopping her took something beyond mortal powers - and most days, it was a comfort. Today it was hard to keep the sound of Hawke yelling Bethany's name out of her head. Back at the trebuchet, with the light from the fire shining on her face, sweat and ash and blood smeared across her pale flesh, Hawke had looked several years younger, proof beyond all else that she was born a girl of mortal flesh and blood like the rest of them.

"Alfonso and Cullen will be safe, too," she said with a knowing glint to her eyes.

Ophelia looked at her.

Bethany grinned, though a tug had her wincing an instant later. "I've never met someone who wears their heart on their sleeve the way you do."

"They'll come in," Ophelia echoed, a half-smile crossing her lips. She didn't want to talk about how a future involving Cullen, Alfonso, and her loved ones seemed further and further away.

As if summoned, the door opened once more. In the wave of people to enter, Hawke and Alfonso were in the front, coated from head to toe in a mixture of soot, blood, and mud. A tall, young boy with blonde hair, snow white skin, and a large hat supported Chancellor Roderick right behind them. Cullen and Dara took up the rear, slamming the Chantry doors closed and bolting it.

Ophelia bit her lip hard. The Chantry was almost full, a sea of people pressed into the tiny stone building as the end of the world stretched overhead. It was only half their numbers, the rest gone to the fighting.

Cullen and Hawke sunk into conversation with Leliana and Josephine. Ophelia took a moment to check them over for any glaring injuries before her gaze was drawn to Alfonso. His hair stuck to his head, and his limp was worse than ever, but a wide, relieved smile crossed his face as their eyes connected over people. He stumbled over to her and she let Bethany's hand go to shoot to her feet. She hugged him tightly. "Thank the Maker!"

"When did you become a hugger?" he asked with a laugh, holding her at arm's length to examine her.

"Since my brother decided to risk his life every other day," she said, head shaking.

Alfonso sobered. "Some things are worth dying for, Phi."

She sighed. "Try not to die anytime soon, I think we've lost enough people today."

Raised voices cut through their conversation. They exchanged grim looks before joining Hawke and the others. The inner circle clustered around the advisors, each looking grim and defeated, the weight of the dragon's cries overhead a stark reminder of their circumstances. Ophelia didn't know if they would have a choice in whether they died or not today. She tightened her grip on Alfonso's arm.

Hawke's hands were on her hips. She was shorter than everyone here save Sera, Varric, and Ophelia, but the inner circle couldn't hold her gaze. "I'm the Inquisitor, if anyone should stay behind, it's me. You can't argue with me about this."

Alfonso sucked in a sharp breath.

"Your status as Inquisitor is one of the very reasons you cannot stay behind. The Inquisition needs a leader - what would we say to our people if you didn't leave with us?" Josephine asked, dark hair falling from its usual style. Her dress creased and bloodied, as if she, too, had been sucked into the fighting around them. Their enemy didn't care if someone was a civilian or an ambassador, Ophelia realized with a pang, casting a new look over the wounded gathered around the Chantry. Some little more than farmers, all of them looking for hope.

Like her, they all thought Hawke was that hope.

Ophelia agreed with Josephine. Hawke couldn't die - the Inquisition and the world had come too far under her somewhat careful hands. She didn't know what they would do without her, but she didn't know how any of them were leaving. Or where.

"Something along the lines of 'gee, I should make her death means something and stop killing people' would be nice," Hawke said. "Follow the Chancellor, everyone can escape. No one else has to die, let me do this."

"It won't bring him back, Hawke," said Varric quietly, a knowing look on his face. With Bethany in the hands of healers, no one knew Hawke better than him. Ophelia puzzled over who.

Hawke flinched, a dizzying array of hurt and pain on her face, her lips parting in an attempt to speak. "I'm not-"

"He won't stop for you," said the boy with the big hat and pale hair. Quiet as he was, his voice was clear as a bell, silencing the argument before it could continue. All eyes swiveled to him, and he pointed a long, slim finger at Ophelia. "He wants her. He won't stop. You took his mages. His templars. His key. He's very angry."

Her blood ran cold, and the inner circle broke into a cacophony of talking. Alfonso planted himself in front of her, as if his mere presence was a detriment to anyone who might shove her outside the Chantry doors. "No," he said, simple and stubborn. "She's not doing it. She doesn't even know how to use a trebuchet."

"Alfonso." She stopped, unsure of what to say. No, she didn't want to do it, she wanted to follow the Chancellor to whatever exit and safety he offered. Walking out those doors and talking with monsters was a foolproof way to die, and she hadn't realized how badly she wanted to live, how reassured she was at the lack of chains to drag her away, until this new ending loomed in front of her. Her call was lost, several voices talking over each other, trying to find an answer that didn't mean someone dying.

If she didn't do this, everyone died.

"I'll do it," she said, cutting through the fighting.

Alfonso bristled, his voice tight with emotion. "Absolutely not, I just found you again. What have they done for you, short of nearly letting you die over and over again?"

She looked over them. Varric with the conflict on his face. Hawke with her sadness, born a human and crafted into a warrior. Dara with his plain face and pink-tinged cheeks, looking winded. Vivienne with her cool gaze, the only chink in her armor being the way she gripped her staff. Dorian with his disheveled hair and concerned eyes. Leliana with her gritted teeth and solemn expression. Josephine with her plaited hair, falling in pieces, clutching her clipboard like it was a lifeline. Cassandra with her tense face, a new scar budding on her cheek, her fingers flexing on her weapon.

Cullen with his ashen face and furrowing brows. Plans were coming together and falling apart in his head, none of them capable of bringing them all out of this alive. The desperation in his face struck her, and she looked away.

Would she die for them? Would she die for Varric who had given her a nickname and stories? Cassandra who had granted her trust after it was broken? Hawke who had fought with her and for her one way or another? Dara who had protected her, a friendship slowly brewing? Dorian who had helped her through the dark future and walked with her to the real future they tried to find now? Would she die for Josephine, Leliana, and the people she had only met once?

She would never see her son if she died here.

Ophelia thought the Inquisition would mean her death once upon a time, but it never occurred to her it would be a death she would walk into willingly. This was no different than closing the breach: no one else could do it and if she refused, she doomed them all. Her son included.

The thought didn't help, but the tight feeling in her chest loosened enough for her to draw a breath. "They are my friends, no matter how or where it formed. Alfonso, I do this for my son, too. The only people who know him are here, the only people who can reach him are here," she said. "Some things are worth dying for, Alfonso. This is my choice." He faltered, scrambling for an argument, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. She looked at Varric and inclined her head. "You helped me once in the Hinterlands when I needed time to process."

He closed his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath and letting it out. Then he tossed a powder into Alfonso's face without pause. Her brother flinched away, too late to dodge it, and swayed where he stood. He collapsed backwards, only Iron Bull's swift actions keeping him from hitting the floor in an undignified heap.

"Will you take care of him?" she asked Varric quietly. "He won't be happy, but… he needs to do it."

For once, Varric floundered, lost for words, a sentiment echoed by the growing silence around her, as if her actions had proven beyond a doubt that she couldn't be swayed from her decision.

She tried someone else. "Hawke, you need to make them leave."

Hawke gritted her teeth, shaking her head. "I can stay, you don't have to do it."

"You can't. He wants me, remember? Maybe this is why I survived the explosion, maybe this is why I lived long enough to close the breach," she soothed, blinking her eyes rapidly. If Ophelia cried, it was over. If she cried, she might not make it out the doors. The urge to ask for them to let her stay nearly unbearable.

Cassandra was the one to act. She drew herself up to her full height. "Anyone who can use their arms, grab supplies, we need everything we can carry. Load up what we can. Chancellor, show us the way."

One by one, they left with soft words and a worried touch.

Cullen remained, torn between his duty and the things waiting on the tip of his tongue. She could see the conflict playing across his face, clearer with the knowledge she wouldn't see it for much longer.

"Ophelia…" He stepped closer to her, the argument won.

"You asked me what future I see for myself," she said. If there was any chance to give him a better answer, it was now. She rocked on her heels, trying to find the words. "I don't know, and I've never known, but I like to imagine there's a sun in them."

"A sun?" he asked quietly. Ophelia wished there was time to ask him how often he got to choose something other than duty, and if it meant something that he picked now to do it. If it meant something because it was her.

Her lips trembled. She forced a smile, tilting her chin up to look him in the eyes, attempting to memorize the pieces of his face. It didn't matter how messy emotions were, or how her heart was scattered in pieces across her life. The only certainty was she didn't want to die without taking a leap, no matter how small.

Ophelia lifted a hand, resting it on his chest, heart beating faster as his rose to rest on hers. Their fingers entwined together, as familiar as breathing. It wasn't in her head, whatever this was between them, she knew it. She couldn't feel his heartbeat through his armor, but this was enough. "It'll never change. The sun rises, the sun sets, and all of us see it - circle or no circle."

His eyes seared into her, the rest of the world lost. She longed to ask, and she longed to know, but she held her tongue. Her own heart didn't matter, not really, a small part of her was resigned to its inevitable halting. His own would continue to beat. If this wasn't in her head, if the want shining in his eyes was at all like the burning in her own chest, then it would break.

She cared enough to not want his heart to break. Maybe it was enough that she accepted it in her own head. She rose on her toes, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His breath came out in a whoosh of surprise, fingers tightening on hers as she drew back, as if longing to bring her forward again.

Clearing her throat, she asked him quietly, "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything."

Her eyes burned, and she blinked them away. "If they find my son, tell him I'll be with him for every sunrise and every sunset if he needs me. My brother, too."

"I will," Cullen promised, holding her hand to his chest, refusing to budge until she did. She fought back the urge to stay, and untangled her fingers before she made this any harder for them. His fingers flexed, and he let out a deep breath. "Maybe you will find a way." He didn't believe it anymore than she did.

Ophelia tried to smile. "You'll be the first to know if I do. Go, they need you."

Cullen lingered, torn between duty and desire, and this time duty won.

She turned on her heel, refusing to watch him walk away, wanting to imagine someone was watching her back as she marched off to die. A figure stepped to her side and she tensed.

"You think we'd let you fight it alone?" Dara asked, shaking his head. Hawke and Varric stood with him, their expressions tight and their smiles feeble, aware of what they were up against and hoping for the best.

"I hoped not, but I thought… I'm glad you're here." She didn't want to walk alone.

"What are friends for," Hawke said with a half-smile.

…

...

Droplets of water fell on her forehead and she opened her eyes, unsure of when she closed them. Her vision was foggy. Another drop – one, two, three – and she blinked until she could make out where she was.

It was so dark she could see nothing. She waved her hand in front of her face, vaguely seeing her wiggling fingers, before feeling around in the darkness. Cold stone met her fingers then tiny splinters of wood and pockets of icy, melting snow.

Ophelia shivered, drawing her hand back.

She sat up, flinching at the burning in her palms. They were bloodied from the fall and the green mark was dulled. She grasped the hem of her robe, tearing off a giant chunk, wrapping the material around both her palms like a bandage. It didn't make them anymore warm, but it eased the sting.

She cupped her hands, closing her eyes. A tiny bulb of light appeared in her hand, illuminating only the nearest of her surroundings: she was in a cavern of sorts, with wooden pillars along the wall to support the jagged, shaky looking ceiling.

A mine, maybe, or an unfinished portion of the temple, maybe. Which meant that she hadn't died in Haven. She was… alive.

She laughed, tears springing to her eyes, and her fingers trembled as she wiped her face before any could fall. She hadn't expected—but she had hoped—

Oh, but she couldn't celebrate yet. The Maker would send her down here – with frozen clothes and trembling fingers and no supplies at all - without any idea of where to find the others. If the others had even made it out.

No. Somebody had. They had signaled her.

And they didn't know about Corypheus.

She sobered at the reminder. Corypheus had been after her and Haven had paid the price – and they would no doubt pay the price of burying his minions as well.

Oh, Maker, she had to tell them.

Hope was uncurling in her breast too. Corypheus had been frightening, but the encounter revealing and she couldn't help feeling relieved that she knew, finally knew, that the destruction at the conclave hadn't been her fault. She hadn't realized how pressing the knowledge was, a permanent squeeze around her lungs, until the feeling had dissipated, leaving behind joyous relief and a burning, desperate desire to live.

She wouldn't see the gallows, not for this. There was no need for her to sit around, waiting, accepting judgement for a crisis that hadn't been her making.

She climbed to her feet and then cried out as her foot gave out from beneath her. The light disappeared, plunging her into blackness. The bits of hope she had gathered since awakening dwindled some at the prospect of navigating an unfamiliar territory without a light and the twinging pain radiating through her body.

He had flung her around like a rag doll and she had fallen who knows how far. Everything hurt.

She cupped her hands again, trying to focus, but her magic was elusive and difficult to draw. She stopped, holding her palms out in front of her to fumble her way through the dark, and picked the direction that felt right - or the one that didn't bring a nasty bout of instinctive queasiness.

The stone floor made her steps echo, like troops were marching the cave rather than a lone mage and she jumped each time she felt a rush of air. It was too dark to see still, the smidge of light from her entrance disappearing the further she went. Ophelia's pace became something of a crawl. Her fingers flailed along the walls and floors to find the safest place to walk that wouldn't send her plummeting into the Deep Roads.

She didn't know how much time had passed, only that the ache had intensified and the cold had grown worse – it was hard to tell the difference between the cold walls and her own freezing fingers. Her magic remained elusive too, like she was trying to grasp smoke that dissipated as soon as she came near.

With it, her hope dwindled.

Survive Haven, die in a cavern.

She didn't know how the dwarves could survive underground or why they preferred it.

She would give anything just to see again; she felt as though she would faint dead if she even got a glimpse of something other than darkness.

Her hand itched, a spasm shooting through the mark and sending sparks of aches up her arm. She frowned, pulling the makeshift bandage off her hand, the mark flaring to life once more before her eyes, illuminating the cavern in an eerie greenish glow. A smile tugged at her lips and she lifted her hand, holding it up to examine her surroundings.

A narrow passageway that made her feel trapped. Ophelia walked quickly, eyes darting around, trying to commit it all to memory. Ahead, she thought she saw a flutter of movement and she picked up the pace, ankle protesting, but the pain lost to her relief.

"Hello?" She called, never so happy to see another person as she was in that moment.

She stopped abruptly in the mouth of a large cavern, eyes wide.

It wasn't a group of people. It wasn't even a single person.

It was a shade.

At her arrival, its body turned to face her and she shivered. It was a great, large beast with decaying skin and an elongated neck upon which was its monstrous face and white eyes. It flexed its hand and her eyes were drawn to the razor sharp, talon-like fingers.

It shrieked.

She threw her hand out, intending on striking it, but her magic flickered, fading and dying without ever reaching her finger tips.

It swung at her and she darted forward, her shoulder ramming into the side of it as she tried to go around. Its fingers dug into the wall, scraping against the stone and leaving gouging marks where it was – and she wondered, then, how easily it would be for this beast to slice her through if it could so easily destroy stone.

Ophelia lifted her hand, trying again, but though her power seemed closer, nothing appeared in her hand. She missed her staff, and she cursed her thoughtlessness for leaving it behind. If it had even survived the fall.

It moved to strike. Ophelia ducked out of the way again, the talons so close they almost ruffled her hair. She swung around, intent on running, but found herself trapped between one wooden pillar and the shade itself.

She shoved her hands out – and power flooded into her fingers. Not her magic, but the mark pulsing in time with her heart. Behind the shade, the sky seemed to rip open, like invisible fingers pried it open, a rift appearing in what was once empty air. It sucked the shade inside and she squeezed her fingers, gapping, and it snapped closed once more.

Had she… had she done that? Ripped open the veil like it was little more than soaked parchment? It hadn't felt like when she was closing the breach, there was no force fighting her, and yet she would recognize a rift anywhere.

"A rift, but not a rift."

She whirled around.

A tall, thin boy watched her. The one from the Chantry with his straw colored hair, patched clothes, and ratty hat.

Ophelia stumbled, holding her hand to her chest. "Who…? Where…?"

"I'm Cole. I want to help. You want to help. If you stay here, we can't do either. She told me to leave - afraid, what if something happens again, I can't see it - but I didn't. I can't. You can't stay here."

"My friend?" she asked faintly, too tired to decipher his words.

"I heard you calling. Couldn't help them, but I can help you. Hard to remember the directions, no one can remember the maps. Hard to encourage you, too bright, too loud, so here I am." Cole rocked on his feet. "I've heard about you. So many thoughts. Some of them aren't nice, but you look nice."

"What are you doing down here?" Her voice rose an octave. Who let their kid wander down here?

"I want to help."

Ophelia blinked. Had she knocked her head in the fall? Was she dreaming… or dying? "Umm, how are you going to do that? You don't know where we are."

"I can hear."

Hear who? Ophelia couldn't hear anything except her own breathing.

He walked away. When she didn't follow, he spun around. "Cold. Dark. Afraid to follow, afraid to stay. Easier to die than it is to live. Someone has to start walking, I don't want it to be me. They are waiting for you."

"I don't know if I trust you." She didn't. Most definitely. But he was a little boy from the looks of it and she didn't relish saying it to his face. A little boy who appeared out of nowhere like magic. Who could hear things that Ophelia couldn't, no matter how she strained.

A demon, maybe? And yet, she couldn't see anything monstrous in his face. As a demon would want her to think, her mind supplied.

"I'm the only person you've seen down here except that Shade," he said.

"Good point." Still, she hesitated. "Why are you trying to help me?"

Cole stilled and his face scrunched in thought. "I want to bring back happiness. Everyone is sad – no Haven, no Herald, no place to go. I can't help with those, I don't know how to fight snow, and only one knows the way, but I can help with this."

"Oh." She opened her mouth to ask more, but closed it before any words could escape. "Which way do you… hear them?" The desire to leave this place - to be warm and safe once more - was stronger than her trepidation of who he was. She could see Cullen again, she thought with a giddy smile. And Alfonso, and Hawke. All of them.

He pointed. "This way."

And they walked. And walked some more.

As it turned out, he was a terrible guide. They reached more dead-ends than if she was wondering alone could have done, but at least she wasn't wandering in the dark alone anymore. Though she couldn't concentrate long enough to conjure a flame, her mark acted as a torch. Well, if torches bathed the cavern walls sickly green like slime, but light was light.

She grew irritable the longer they walked, but Cole took each deadend with an unflinching quiet, only turning on his heels and marching back. "Close. So close. Further still, and further than we've ever gone. Who knows where we're going? Where do I go without her?"

"What?"

"Their thoughts are loud. Too loud. I can't grab them. The ones who think of you are afraid to walk too far. Afraid to stay."

She didn't respond.

They walked in silence for a while longer.

At first, she thought her eyes were adjusting to the green light, bringing more of the cavern into focus. It was only when she felt the first brush of bitter cold hair against her face that she realized that there was an exit somewhere ahead.

"The hearing is louder out here. This is the way."

She didn't think getting them lost five times counted, but didn't correct him, hurrying down the narrow passageway toward the light. The sight of their entrance reinvigorated her, drowning out all the other pains. When she finally burst through the snow-coated vines sprouting over the exit, she could have wept tears of joy at the sight of the rising moon. She turned to face Cole, words of thanks on her lips, and then froze.

He was gone. The snow disturbed only by her own footprints.

"That's so disturbing," she murmured, fingers on her lips. They were colder than before and she breathed on them to ease the trembling. It did little to help as a harsh wind whipped her hair around her face, battering against her skin. The cave had shielded her from the elements and now she realized how cold it was.

It would only get worse the longer she waited.

Ophelia drew her eyes around, trying to spot some sign, and she frowned. Nothing. Not a plume of smoke, an arrow, or anything. Just a landscape painted white and imposing mountains.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, ducked her face down from the chill, and walked.

So cold.

Her magic remained useless – now she couldn't even call on a flicker. And she feared using her hand as a light, afraid that the biting chill would lead to frozen fingers. She trudged through the snow, shivering.

So cold.

She didn't know where to go. She could have been walking in circles. She spotted a fire pit some ways back, but the ashes were old and the warmth long since sapped.

So cold.

Was that the same tree?

So cold.

Was it getting harder to think?

So cold.

She couldn't really feel it anymore. The wind chapped her face, sending snow into her face, but she couldn't be any colder than she was already. Her body seemed to be in a permanent state of shivering when she spotted another fire pit. She stumbled over to it, shaking, and reached to test the ashes.

They were warm. They were…

She was close. She could… rest. Just for a few minutes. Gather some strength.

Wearily, she slumped beside the fire, curling up to keep warmth, as close as she dared get to the ashes, trying to gain as much warmth from it as she could. Her eyes were heavy. Ophelia closed them, but forced them open. Alarm bells were ringing in her head, screaming at her not to sleep, but...

She was so tired.

Her eyes were too heavy to hold open. They fell closed, a breathless hum escaping her lips like a half-forgotten lullaby. Then she was wrapped in warmth and knew no more.


	16. The Lost and the Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Inquisition experiences their first night without a home.

If they didn’t find a place to rest their heads beyond this snow-drenched, death-touched mountain, her sacrifice would be for nothing. It was the single driving thought pushing Cullen onward, step after step, neither stumbling nor stopping as Chancellor Roderick led them through the winding paths, into the snow, and beyond. Don’t stop, don’t let it be in vain. The mantra repeated in his head, each time as unsatisfactory as the rest, only abated by the miles long trail they left behind. 

The thought ran rampant once their march came to a stop.

Cullen sat with others around the fire, the smoke wafting into his face and burning his eyes, but he made no attempt to move, only tilted his head to the side, regarding their poor attempt at making camp with the little supplies they had managed to grab. More and more people stumbled across them, bearing bruises, wounds, and the minimal things they could carry, and he thanked the Maker that he had drilled a safe location to retreat into their heads. 

Each person to come along sent his heart jolting, eyes lifting for the newest addition in search of Ophelia’s small smile. He tried not to let the disappointment show. As the hours passed, it was more and more foolish to think she would make it free, and still he looked, still he hoped. If he did either of them hard enough, maybe he would feel less like a man waking from sleep and grasping for a dream.

A log in the fire collapsed, sending bursts of embers flying out. Cold as it was, they were snuffed out the moment they hit the snow. She would hate it, he thought, it was cold even for him and he was born and raised in Ferelden. If she were here, Ophelia would sit close enough to the fire to singe her hair. 

Cullen sighed, running a hand over his face. He had to maintain his composure, he had to keep his spirits up, if only because everyone looked to him and the others for survival. Somehow, it didn’t make things easier. 

“Doubt anybody here knows who she is,” Alfonso said quietly, his elbows on his knees and his red-tinged eyes on the fire. He hadn’t stopped moving since he had woken up, first fighting with the others to find Ophelia, and the next encouraging everyone onwards through each painful step, dragging them when they wouldn’t. Like Cullen, he must have known the only thing they could do for her sake was walk, no matter how badly they wanted to find her. What could they do, though, short of dying with her? Two less people in the world to remember her name, and even less to know her last wish. 

She deserved more, but this is what they could do. The only thing. Cullen closed his eyes, forcing away the piercing ache in his skull through sheer will alone. Trying, too, not to remember the final time he saw her and equally unwilling to let the image drift from his mind. He could still feel a phantom touch on his cheek from her lips, and recall the exact shade of her eyes, even blurred with tears as they were at the time. 

He would know her kiss and her eyes the rest of his life. It was hard to believe only four months ago, he was meeting her for the very first time. He hadn’t known then nor in the month of her subsequent flight that she would become important. Of all the things in his life he longed to forget, this wasn’t one of them, no matter how badly it ended. 

Leliana’s words all those years ago in Kinloch rang true. He seemed to find a new meaning to it every time someone new and important to him was lost. The longing for his family and the comfort they once brought him was stronger now than it had been in months. 

Alfonso continued, lost in his own world and his own grief. “Prisoner this, Herald that.” His words were a mumble and if they weren’t sitting so close, he might not have heard them. “She doesn’t deserve to be remembered as something she’s not.” Cullen opened his eyes, watching Alfonso with worry. His shoulders were slumped, his head bowed down under a weight none of them could see, but to which Cullen could feel an aching understanding. 

“No, she doesn’t,” he said quietly, though the man hardly heard him. He didn’t repeat himself. 

"She deserves better than this."

Cullen didn't argue. He thought the same, even if he could see no solution, cloudy as his head was with lyrium ghosts lurking around every corner. His thumb rubbed his brow, finding no solace in the pressure or pain.

"Cold. She's so cold."

"Andraste's knickers! When did you get here?" Alfonso exclaimed. A lanky boy with too big eyes perched across the fire, hat tipped low, so familiar Cullen felt a name rising to the tip of his tongue. The urge faded, there and gone.

Heads shot up at the noise, hands shooting to hips where weapons rested. Everyone was on edge, and the idea of a new enemy had the people nearest them surging forward, half out of fear and half out of vengeance. Cullen shot to his feet, holding his hand up to halt the other’s movements. 

The boy - Cole, that was it - lifted his eyes, seeming to look through him for several seconds. A blink, and they were piercing, peering at a piece of his soul. The sensation was strange and so familiar he balked, backing away. Memories of another time ghostly hands tried to mess with his mind rose to the forefront, stealing his breath. He steeled himself, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword.

His hands trembled. Would he always be haunted? 

"No, not like that."

Cullen blinked. 

A boy was standing near him, eyes strong and piercing, and he didn't understand the feeling of sickness welling in him. Was it lyrium?

"She's too cold. Dim. I can't see the light, just the cold."

"Andraste's knickers! How did you get here?" Alfonso exclaimed. A headache was forming behind Cullen's eyes, a burning familiarity racing through him. He hadn't felt anything like it, not since--

"Those ghosts aren't here," the boy said. Cole, wasn't it? The name popped into his mind, though he couldn’t say where he learned it or how he knew it to be true without asking. Memory came back to him, too slow to voice, and he recalled Cole, telling them why the enemy fought them, and who the enemy would stop for. His chest twisted. "Too many. Which are the ones he means? The ones wanted, the ones forgotten."

"What are you?" Cullen asked.

The cries had garnered attention. Hawke strode briskly across the snow, her eyes bright, darker than he'd seen in a long while. Last time he had seen it, she was striding to the person who betrayed her. This time, she halted a heartbeat away, jaw clenching and unclenching as she fought for words. The dark left them all weary, and the fight fell from her, a cloak falling to the snow. "Why are you here?" She asked Cole stiffly, waving away the crowd. They hesitated, and only a stern look sent them back to where they came. 

"You sent me away, but I can help. I want to help. Bring back the light." Cole rocked on his feet. In a blink, he was standing further away. The people nearest him scrambled back, but he remained impassive to their presence, focused intently on something in the distance. "Dimmer. Is it always so quiet at night?" Cole waited.

Hawke sighed, exasperated. "Speak plainly."

Cole stared, as if he could think of no other way to speak so clearly.

Alfonso edged closer to Hawke, the limp in his leg less pronounced. His hand strayed to his weapon, coming up empty. Cullen didn't even realize he was holding the pommel of his blade until Cole's gaze turned on him. Piercing. Familiar.

"There's no sun here," he said, and Cullen halted.  _ It'll never change. The sun rises, the sun sets, and all of us see it - circle or no circle,  _ he remembered _.  _ A small, fragile hope bloomed in him. His hand dropped, automatically stepping closer. 

"Is she alive?" He asked quietly. Alfonso sucked in a breath, falling silent when Cole returned his gaze to the three of them. His eyes were miles away once more.

Cullen exchanged a hopeless look with Hawke and Alfonso, then looked to the horizon. It had to be her, it just had to be. It was too much to imagine Cole’s words were a coincidence when he could recall every detail of their last conversation with painful clarity. 

The hopeful part sank slowly as reason prevailed. Who wouldn't be thinking of the sun in a place like this? Cold, and dreary, and the dawn seeming so far away.

"Colder. Can't think, need to find them. One step, two. Warmer, closer. One, two." Cole struggled. "I can hear her. Faint. Slipping."

"Where?" He said, voice tight, trying not to bark, trying to coax. If he startled him, if he was gone, it was over. How would they find her out there? Alfonso and Hawke were quiet, two coiled springs waiting for a direction to jump.

Cole lifted a hand, pointing back the way they came. "She found your beacons. It's not enough." A blink, and Cole was gone.

A dizziness washed over Cullen, his vision blurring around the edges. He couldn't remember why he was standing, or why Hawke and Alfonso were so tense, their hands on weapons. His body shook. Perhaps he required sleep, but, no, this wasn’t fatigue, it was though he had woken from sleep with new energy and purpose.

For what? Memory tugged at his head.

"When did you get here, Tilda?" Alfonso asked, tired, slumping down into his seat. When did he stand up? If a mystery wasn't dangling in front of him, taunting him, he might wonder when the two became close enough to speak so informally. When it became normal for Hawke to drop down beside him, expression pinched.

"Just now. I..." she struggled. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave her; I didn't want anyone else to die for me."

Alfonso blinked rapidly. "She's not dead, don't talk about her like that. I know she's still out there." The headache in Cullen's skull was terrible, worse than he had felt around the red lyrium of the future.

"How?"

"I... I feel it. I know it, she's still alive."

She was, Cullen agreed with a jolt. That was it, that was what he needed to do. "If she is, she'll be too hurt to find us," Hawke said quietly, carefully, brows furrowing. She looked at them, and he knew she grappled with the same feeling surging through him. "She'll get lost out there, it's so dark and so cold, she'd need a beacon to--" Hawke held her head.

Cullen understood the feeling. Something was there, niggling in his head. Anxious, he shook his head, rubbing his fingers into his eyes. They were sore, more than usual, as if he had done the same motion multiple times. "The campfires. We left some, she can find them." Cullen frowned, looking out to the horizon. The idea of her stumbling around in the dark bothered him. It was cold, and she could be hurt. Why hadn’t they thought to send people to watch before? They didn’t have the numbers, he knew, but it still seemed a gross oversight. 

The urge to look was unbearable, and he walked several steps to the exit before Hawke called his name. He looked over his shoulder.

"We should look," said Alfonso. He shot to his feet and blanched. His arms wind milled for balance, and a hiss escaped his lips. Hawke gripped his arm between one of her hands, drawing him back down to the log acting as a bench. Her hand stayed clasped on his shoulder, though Cullen didn’t know if it was out of support or to hold the man in place through sheer force of power. 

"Your leg won't last in the snow, it’ll only hurt you more or slow us down, and we need all the time we can get,” he said, uncomfortable with asking him to stay. If it were his own siblings, could he stand to sit here around the fire and wait? Maybe. Cullen hoped he was pragmatic enough to know his own limits. Marching through the snow, further and further away from the place he wanted to be, seemed proof enough. 

“We’ll send word,” Hawke reassured in the quiet to fall over them, holding his shoulder just a little tighter. His reluctant nod brought a softer frown to her face, there and gone in a heartbeat, and she turned to face him. “Cullen, we need to go. Hey! Search party for the Herald, who can walk still?” 

Mumbled groans reached her ears. Her lips tightened with disappointment and resignation. “Okay, well, we need to get Bethany at least. The Herald will need a healer if she’s--I mean when we find her.” Her correction was quick, looking at Alfonso and letting out a shallow breath at his closed eyes. Whether he heard or not, Cullen didn’t notice, unable to hold back an instinctive flinch at Hawke’s words. 

“We’ll find her,” Cullen said, and hoped it was true.

…

…

It was colder than he remembered. The snow bit against every inch of exposed skin, and the wind slashed against his cheeks, each gust worse than the last. Bethany fared no better, slipping and sliding in the snow, and often her hand caught his shoulder for balance. The third such time, she nearly knocked his legs out from under him, her yelp muffled with a hand across her lips. Cullen caught her arm, pausing to let her regain her balance as he scoured the land around them. 

Snow in every direction, only the bottoms of trees sticking out from the ground proved they weren’t walking in circles. Cullen held the lantern up higher, squinting. They could only see several feet in front of them, and he wasn’t sure how they were going to find Ophelia in all this. 

“How is it still storming? The blizzard is over, I can see the stars sort of,” Hawke said, huffing, her breath appearing from her lips in plumes of white air as she halted next to him. She squinted, swinging her lantern one direction and the other, as if the movement might provide her extra sight. “We should have gone the other way with Cassandra. Why did we take this path again?”

Cullen didn’t remember. An instinct, maybe, the same type to send them walking into the snow with nary an idea of where to look and only a blind hope of finding the lost. He inclined his head for them to continue moving. Their steps were slow, fumbling as they were against the slick ground. His teeth chattered, and through his gloves, a coldness was creeping in. Ignore it, he reminded himself, a mantra as they put one foot in front of the other. 

“It was your idea, Tilda,” Bethany said, a frown in her voice. Cullen didn’t turn to check. 

“Was not. It would probably be safer for everyone to travel together. Last thing we need is more people getting lost out here.” 

“Someone… told us,” he said, because talking made him less cold, or it made him think about everything a little less. Worry guided him as much as fear and neither left room for thought. 

Tilda snorted. “If you have a gap in your memory too, we need to look into that, it could be-- Wait, do you hear that?” 

Cullen halted, holding his breath. What else was there, other than the howling wind and his own pounding heart? He frowned, unable to place the noise. “It sounds like humming,” he murmured. “Where? Ophelia!” 

He didn’t expect an answer, but his heart still twisted at the lack of one. 

“It must have been the wind,” Hawke said, disappointed. 

They walked for several feet more before something tugged them to a stop. He exchanged looks with Bethany and Hawke, unsure of what was holding them in place. Instinct, again, and a foggy memory of someone whispering for them to stop. 

Hawke rubbed her forehead. “Cole,” she muttered, and he didn’t know who that was, but he knew she was right. 

Bethany murmured, and the sound of humming was replaced with the flash of awareness as she cast a spell. A wisp of white light appeared in her palms, growing brighter as she murmured to it quietly. Cullen rocked away, hand half rising to cup his forehead and dropping as he let out a shallow breath, forcing the pain away. Later, he could allow it to sweep over him, but not now. He blinked slowly, breathing through it. 

Hawke watched him with open curiosity. He shook his head, returning his attention to Bethany. 

The light seeped from her fingers, bright like a star clutched in her fingers. She let the magic drop, the fade falling away from her and the pressure on his head eased, only a faint buzzing remained. She tossed it across the snow, watching it bounce soundlessly into the distance, the trees appearing as long shadows across the snow. It struck a stone several yards ahead and burst into a spiral of light illuminating several feet around it: the dark trunk of a tall tree, a snow-topped grey stone, a broken wagon wheel sticking out of a fire not quite frozen.

A person slumped against the ground, curled up around themselves, snow and blood clinging to them like a second skin. Her dark hair was half-frozen, braid long forgotten, and her clothes so torn and shabby he might not have recognized her. But he did, he would have known her anywhere. He inhaled sharply, Hawke and Bethany at his heels as he shot across the snow. “Ophelia!” 

Bethany was already calling magic to her, and this time, Cullen felt none of it as he dropped into a crouch beside Ophelia’s still form. 

Ophelia’s lips were parted, as though she were mid-hum when her strength had given up on her. Her hand was tucked beneath her cheek, and the other was splayed across the ground, the mark on her hand eerily still. 

Were they too late? No, they couldn’t be, they couldn’t have come so far only to have lost at the last possible second. Cullen had just found her, and his hands trembled with the urge to reach out and draw her close, as if he could somehow bring the warmth back to her with only a touch. 

“Herald, can you hear us?” Bethany asked quietly, laying a hand across her forehead. It did little to ease the paleness, nor did it bring a response from Ophelia’s lips, but the mark grew a little brighter. 

If it was alive, then surely so was she. 

“Her ankle is broken. Some of her ribs, I… I think that’s the worst of it, but I can’t tell, it’s too…” Bethany grimaced, bringing another hand up, fingertips resting on Ophelia’s brows. Whatever she did, drawing enough on the fade to bring a sharp inhale to Cullen’s lips, worked enough to draw a shaky breath from Ophelia. 

He unbuckled the mantle he wore, the red-brown fur sliding from his shoulders. “Can you heal while we walk?” he murmured, tucking the edges of the fur around her still form. It was only his imagination that her face softened as if she knew. “We can’t stay here; the storm could get worse any minute.” 

Bethany nodded, scooting away. “Careful,” she murmured, helping settle Ophelia into his arms. 

“Maker, it’s like holding ice,” he murmured, brushing a hand across her face, pushing the hair away from her forehead as he did so. He could feel the chill of her skin against his fingers, even gloved. “Up we go.” Cullen stood up slowly, shifting her weight in his arms and tucking her hands in the fur wrapped around her. She was lighter than he anticipated, and if it were less dire, his cheeks would blaze, but he couldn’t think of anything other than the trek between them and safety with the rest of the Inquisition. Safe as it could be in the middle of nowhere, as they were now. 

“I need one of her hands,” Bethany said quietly. He glanced at her, but didn’t argue, shifting slightly for her to take one of Ophelia’s hands. It left them lopsided, and Cullen adjusted his stance once more. Bethany leaned against him, blinking in surprise. 

“Easier, I’ll keep us steady,” he murmured. It wasn’t like he could sprint through the snow, not with Ophelia in his arms, too important to drop. Bethany didn’t argue, only exchanged a brief look with Hawke before the hum of magic echoed in his ears as she murmured a spell. What a strange sight they must make: one half frozen woman wrapped in fur, one man in armor holding her too closely to be professional, and another woman grasping the first’s hand like it was a lifeline.

Perhaps, in the case of healing magic, it was. The thought was sobering, any levity premature when all around them was a desolate, cold emptiness. 

Hawke nudged his elbow with her own, little of the usual fervor in her hit. Whether it was concern for the woman in his arms whom Hawke watched with a tenderness he didn’t expect her to show to anyone other than Bethany, or the weight of the last few hours, he didn’t know. Nothing on her face betrayed her, not for a long second before she blew out a breath and a wide grin crossed her face. He didn’t quite believe it. “I’m running ahead, someone will be waiting for you,” she said. “Try not to lose her in the snow, will you?” 

“I won’t,” he promised. 

“Thought you’d say something like that.” 

…

...

The Inquisition was floundering. Haven’s loss hit harder as the night waned and dawn approached with no end in sight. No plan, no home, and an enemy waiting for them, somewhere, and Cullen could think of a dozen first steps to take, but none they could act upon without knowing more. In the aching hours after their near deaths, it was relief at being alive holding them together. It kept the fighting at a minimum as they scrambled from one check point to the next through the mountains, seeking shade in the shadows of the mountain. With dawn, the relief faded, leaving people with room to argue, and they hadn’t stopped since the search party - small as it was with two teams and six people altogether - returned.

It left Cullen tetchy, and anxious to boot. Worse because Ophelia was still asleep, curled up in one of the few cots they had managed to scour from their meager supplies. Her brother had hardly left her side, holding one of her hands tightly and murmuring, only falling silent when another approached. When a break between his other duties allowed it, Cullen would join him, plan found and scrapped one after another.

Another day faded, and they were trekking along through the snow for the Imperial Highway, the only goal they could agree on. The future, shrouded as it was, frightening as it was, left them little room to move. 

“We need to know,” Leliana said. 

“She isn’t awake still,” Cullen said, a tad impatiently, alternating between the map and their surroundings. They were working on crates, several feet away from the rest of the Inquisition. It was no War Room, but it was the best they could do with their circumstances, a motto they were clinging to with each passing hour. Less comforting was the fact that they were only responding to each new problem rather than preparing for it. He suspected that wouldn’t change, not until Ophelia woke up and told them more. 

If she woke up. Soon, Bethany had said, and Solas, too, when roused from his brief slumber upon their arrival the night before. Maybe, Adan had thought, his words slurred as a healing potion surged through him, attempting to fix the burns running his face. He took solace in them. 

He was the only one who did. 

“She said nothing?” Leliana asked, head shaking. “A hint, a clue, a name, anything?” 

Cullen sighed, exasperated, reigning in his temper with great force. They were all working on little sleep and a mile-high list of things hanging over their head. He would not take it out on his allies. “She was half gone when we found her, unable to talk let alone think coherently. Maker knows what would have happened if we were a few minutes later.” He faltered, and cleared his throat, eyes fixed once more upon the map. The sight of it was burned into his eyes, and he saw their route whenever he blinked, but it was better than worrying. A little. 

“We can explore nothing without allies, and we cannot keep our allies if we are buried under snow,” Josephine said, snow clinging to her hair and falling on her board. She swept them both off with the same carefulness she did everything, still as well-kept and graceful as ever despite their circumstances. Often, Josephine made him feel sloppy, but in their current situation, he admired her ability to stay put together no matter the surroundings. It was the only reason he was sleeping anymore or attempting it. 

“Solas wants to talk with me after this, says he knows something that will help. Maybe he’ll know somewhere nearby,” Hawke said, dubious. “I’ll take a ruin over this mountain anytime.”

“Inquisitor, some of the soldiers are arguing over blankets again,” said one weary messenger, startling them from their conversation. How easy it was to forget they were talking out in the open rather than secure inside the Chantry. 

Hawke groaned. “Again?” The messenger blinked, and she waved them off with an apologetic smile, or so he assumed from the odd grimace like smile on her face. When he was out of ear shot, she shot them all a look. “I handled it last time, it’s someone else’s turn.” 

Cullen exchanged a look with the two women. None of them wanted to settle a fight once more, not when it was spent listening to complaints for several minutes longer than either of them wanted right now. Josephine blinked, serene, and said, “This is quite like my usual duties, albeit with less high stakes in the game than usual. I will attend to it, if someone will promise to argue my side while I am gone.” 

“And your side is?” Hawke asked, arching a brow. 

Josephine smiled. “As you said before, I would take nearly anything over this mountain.” 

Once she was gone, Hawke ran a hand through her hair. “Well, you wanted a clue, and we do have one from all this: Samson. Why would he even want to fight us, and what does he have to do with the Elder One? If there’s any lead to explore, that’s the one.”

Cullen had, in truth, almost forgotten about Samson, or pushed him out of his mind far enough that the mention of him brought the flickers of another headache. Some of the unconscious tension in his shoulders had Samson’s name on it. “This isn’t like him,” he admitted, pushing away the slight sickness swelling in him as he remembered the last time he saw Samson. Kirkwall was no easy place for the mind to dwell, but what he knew of Samson and his story was worse. How could Samson - of all people - allow the events of Haven to happen without blinking an eye? “He was not so callous.” It ended as a question, and he tried not to look at Hawke for an answer. His doubts were not something he would have her carry, too. 

“He told me once he helped the mages in Kirkwall out of guilt, that he was removed from the Order for helping a mage send letters, and I couldn’t see that man returning to fight us like this. We certainly didn’t consider him an enemy until now,” Hawke said with a shrug. It was as Cullen thought, too, but Hawke wasn’t done. “But people change. You did. I remember what you said in Kirkwall about mages once and yet here you are. Maybe he changed for the worse.”

Cullen wondered which thing he had said - and the fact he had to think made a knot in his stomach grow. He cleared his throat, pushing the thought away. Another time, when duty wasn’t demanding him, when he could find the words to soothe and heal the words he had once spoken out of fear and anger. 

“We can’t dismiss the idea that he’s being manipulated but underestimating him on the possibility is… a dangerous mistake. Samson is a capable man, he withstood lyrium withdrawal longer than anyone I know. The real power is the Elder One - and we know that’s not Samson. It was whoever or whatever was next to him.” He paused, unable to think of the description for the person who had stood next to Samson on the battlefield. A figment of his imagination, surely, and if that were the case, he would need to speak to Cassandra sooner rather than later. 

He wished he had forced the spy glass into Hawke’s hands, if only for someone else to confirm what he thought he saw. A demon, the others had said when he told them. 

“Regardless, we need more information. Samson can’t be the Elder One, he doesn’t have the knowledge to do things like this last I checked,” Hawke said, gesturing up to the sky. The breach was closed, but the sky was scarred, leaving patches of green in the sky where once there was none. “But who does?”

“Corypheus does.”

Ophelia’s soft voice washed over him. The tension and worry of the last day washed away from him, and he spun around, eyes drinking in the sight of her face as she did his. Her cheeks were pink and her hair tousled; if it weren’t for the bruises still lingering on her skin and the tremble in her steps as she approached them, Cullen wouldn’t have thought she was several hours near death only the night before. His mantle was around her shoulders - he had forgotten it was with her. 

She made a small gesture, offering it back, and he shook his head slightly. 

“What did you just say?” Hawke asked in a deadly quiet, fixing Ophelia with such a look that Cullen fought the urge to step between them. It was the panic in her eyes that stilled him, and he wondered what kind of power this Corypheus contained if he frightened one of the toughest people he knew. 

Ophelia crept closer, tightening her fingers on the mantle as she squeezed herself into the gap Leliana and Cullen made for her around the crate. Their shoulders brushed, and it was a relief to know she was solid, if not yet sturdy. “The Elder One. His name is Corypheus, and we haven’t seen the last of him. He’ll come back, if not for me then for you and whoever else is in his way,” Ophelia said, shivering. Cullen clenched his fingers, fighting the urge to lay a hand on her shoulder, to offer what little warmth he could. 

Hawke shook her head, looking pained. “No, there’s no way he’s still alive, I killed him, I practically danced on his fucking corpse.” 

“I’m not lying,” she said quietly, fingers clutching the mantle. They were trembling, and he resolved to end this conversation if it grew any worse.

“Could he be lying?” Leliana asked bluntly. “Your history is well known, and the pieces that aren’t are easy to dig up with the right pressure.” 

“Was your Corypheus a tall, weird darkspawn monster with a fondness for dress-like robes and looked like someone who bathed in red lyrium?” Hawke asked her. Cullen frowned, the furrow deepening as Ophelia nodded at what he considered the strangest description of a person ever. But familiar, too, and he wondered if the man in the snow was less a hallucination and more an enemy he had never seen nor faced. 

The agreement stole something from Hawke, knocking away one of the beams holding her aloft. Her fingers gripped the crate, knuckles white from the force.

“Inquisitor?” he found himself asking, concerned.

Hawke shook her head. “I fought him once and it nearly killed me, but I won. I thought I won.” She let go of the crate abruptly, stray hand reaching for her own hair.

Ophelia was the only one who looked understanding, and Cullen felt as though he were asleep, dreaming something absurd. Darkspawn monsters, after all, seemed like something akin to a tale you heard during a blight, not ten years after it. Leliana was tight-lipped, and it occurred to him she was in the thick of the blight and knew better than anyone what a darkspawn threat could mean. 

“If it’s him, I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Hawke said finally, so quiet Cullen almost didn’t hear it, lost as he was in his own thoughts. “I don’t even know how you lived, Herald, I almost died to him and you-- you have all the strength of a two-year-old, no offense.”

“None taken,” Ophelia said with a shaky smile, one that didn’t reach her haunted eyes. He swayed closer to her but stopped short before he could do anything more. “I think it was luck.” 

Hawke sucked in a breath and let it go with a ragged sigh. “Well, damn, I hope you have more of it, we’re going to need it.” Ophelia nodded. “Tell us everything that happened, and then I’m going to see Solas. We can’t waste more time on this mountain if Corypheus is the Elder One.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I've started school, we will likely be moving to a bi-weekly update unless I'm given time during the week to write the chapters! 
> 
> Either way, I won't leave you hanging. I am so excited for the next arc of the story we will be stepping into once we wrap up a little bit more of the Haven things (I think the next chapter is the final wrap up for Haven and starts setting up pieces for the rest so I hope you enjoy that when it comes). 
> 
> Apologies for the mini break from updates, I had to take a break from the internet for my own mental health and I've only recently gotten my feet back under me again. As usual, find me on twitter or tumblr under the same name for any news / updates! Thank you everyone for your previous comments, I'll be responding to them shortly!


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